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LongBench v2 / 6723a1ccbb02136c067d70b3 / Narrives: 1. The narrator recalls a moment of crisis when their siblings found…

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question

Narrives: 1. The narrator recalls a moment of crisis when their siblings found their stepfather's severed finger on the front lawn after a lawn mower accident, marking the only time they expressed joy.
2. The protagonist is falsely accused of a probation violation for supposedly driving by Kaden's daycare after being released from jail, despite not having access to a car.
3. The judge offers the woman a choice between staying on probation until her restitution is fully paid or paying through a county collection agency, which would negatively impact her credit.
4. Mama Love is bailed out of jail, causing excitement among her family as they gather her belongings and prepare to leave, but she realizes she can't return home due to the conditions of her bail.
Query: Considering the given book and narratives, Which order of the narratives in the following options is correct?

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$250,000, which seems excessive considering the only violent moment I\u2019ve ever had in my life was throwing a head of iceberg lettuce at my high school boyfriend when I was sixteen. Needless to say, no one has bailed me out. My mother-in-law could bail me out, but apparently she\u2019s too angry to consider it. She blames me for DJ\u2019s crimes. It\u2019s almost Christmas, and I\u2019m no closer to knowing my fate than I was on the day I arrived. I try to call Kaden on December 12, his fourth birthday, but there\u2019s no answer at Bryan\u2019s house. Some days it feels like there is no outside world. It\u2019s just three meals a day and music videos. I feel listless and tense. I only have a year, or I lose Kaden forever. A judge will say I\u2019m no longer his mother, and legally it will be true. It doesn\u2019t matter where I am. The clock ticks just the same. Unless I can have a certain number of supervised visits with him, stay clean, provide somewhere to live, get a job, go to therapy, take a parenting class\u2014I will lose him. None of it is hard to do, but all of it is impossible to do from G. I just want to know what\u2019s going to happen one way or another. The not knowing is the worst. Every day is like that moment when you lean back in a chair and you go just a little too far and have to jerk yourself upright. I\u2019m not upright, and I haven\u2019t fallen; I\u2019m suspended in that space of muted panic. Things get tenser in G as Christmas approaches. Just like on the outside, holidays are triggering and make everyone even edgier. Arguments happen over the hot pot and someone double-dipping her colored pencil directly instead of putting the hot water in her mug. The cleanliness of the shower is another powder keg waiting to blow. The lack of new videos in the rotation have some cursing the country music channel in two languages. Today tension is high because a woman named Elena was brought in last night and Daddy suspects her of ratting out a friend of a friend of Daddy\u2019s. There\u2019s something about a motel room, counterfeit money, and a setup. Daddy is raging at Elena, trying to bait her, trying to get her to respond. Elena just ignores Daddy and watches the videos. Daddy\u2019s rage is escalating. She\u2019s on the top level yelling down at Elena and getting zero response. I\u2019m annoyed that the yelling is interrupting the music. Finally, Daddy comes barreling down the stairs, and I lift my head and watch as she slips on the bottom step and falls. Everyone laughs, even her minions. Daddy does not like to be laughed at. I quickly jump up from my chair and stand between Daddy and the tables. Her face is red with embarrassment. Even under her buzz cut, her scalp has turned red. I give her my hand and as I pull her up, I whisper, \u201cReal power is quiet power.\u201d She freezes, her head next to mine. \u201cIf you lose control of yourself, you lose control of them,\u201d I add. Daddy pulls me into the bathroom and doesn\u2019t say a word. Everyone stops laughing. \u201cExplain,\u201d she commands. \u201cIf you rage at Elena, you give her power over you. Over your emotions. She becomes stronger than you.\u201d Daddy nods. \u201cIf you fight her, you\u2019ll get pulled out of here, and then you really won\u2019t have any control.\u201d I\u2019m making shit up now. I have no idea what the guards do when there is a real fight. I recall the time I dumped an entire box of cereal onto the middle of the kitchen floor to shock my kids into silence so I could take a business call and not have the client know I was at home with three little boys. \u201cYou have to create cognitive dissonance\u2014do the unexpected thing and she\u2019ll do something different.\u201d I\u2019m not sure if this is what cognitive dissonance means, but the words impress Daddy. \u201cI get it,\u201d she says. \u201cDope.\u201d She turns and walks out of the bathroom. I follow behind her, not sure what she\u2019s going to do. She walks over to Jolly Rancher, who\u2019s sitting next to Elena, and motions for her to get up. She sits down next to Elena and doesn\u2019t say a word, just stares at her. When lunch comes, she doesn\u2019t eat. She just sits and stares at Elena. And when Elena moves to a different table, Daddy follows her. All afternoon, she sits and stares and never speaks. When the meal trays come for dinner, Daddy is still staring, and Elena is increasingly nervous and uncomfortable. When Daddy doesn\u2019t eat dinner, everybody in G goes silent. Elena runs to the bathroom and pushes the panic button. Two guards come in. \u201cRoll me up,\u201d she says, pulling her things down from her bunk. \u201cI need to go to another unit.\u201d The guards know that a girl rolling herself up really means the other inmates are rolling her up. She\u2019s not wanted. They don\u2019t argue when someone wants to be rolled up, and they don\u2019t ask questions. It\u2019s how you keep peace in the unit, and the guards want zero problems and zero paperwork. They look around to see if anyone is obviously causing trouble for Elena, but nobody says a word. Daddy just watches the television, disinterested. \u201cRoll it up then,\u201d one of them says. After Elena leaves, Daddy walks upstairs and starts moving people around. I see bunks being shifted from room to room. Spider, the girl with the neck tattoo, comes downstairs and moves into the room next to Vivian. That girl moves out onto the freeway. I\u2019m not sure what is happening until Daddy walks up to me. \u201cGet your stuff.\u201d \u201cWhat?\u201d I\u2019m shocked. Is she rolling me up? \u201cYou\u2019re moving in with Patricia.\u201d Patricia is an older gangster woman and super chill. She has a prime room right at the top of the stairs, but mostly keeps to herself. People show her respect because she\u2019s so old. I grab my few things and Daddy picks up my yoga mat mattress. I can\u2019t believe I\u2019m getting a door that shuts. Some quiet. More privacy. I settle my stuff onto my bed and turn to say hi to Patricia. \u201cWhat you want?\u201d she asks with a big smile. Before me on her bunk lies a huge array of snacks from the commissary\u2014chips, candy bars, ramen noodles, bear claws, Jolly Ranchers. The mother lode. I pick up a Snickers and peel back the wrapper. Nothing in my life has tasted as good as this candy bar. Everything changes once I\u2019m on the top tier. During long conversations, I get to know everyone well. I stand at the railing and look down on the freeway and discuss the latest gossip in G with Daddy. We keep the peace. My thirty-two felony charges give me street cred I don\u2019t deserve, considering I didn\u2019t even know the phrase \u201cstreet cred\u201d two months ago. But I go along with it. I develop some swagger. I tell the girls how I decoded the algorithm to credit cards\u2014the pattern of odd and even numbers that are used by each bank\u2014so I could create working credit card numbers without having to have an actual card. It\u2019s not that complicated, but they\u2019re deeply impressed. On paper, it looks like I\u2019m the scariest person in the county. Since I don\u2019t know the street world of Santa Cruz, I don\u2019t know who to fear, defer to, or lord over\u2014I treat everyone equally. Now that I\u2019m on the top tier, I quickly come to understand each subgroup, each clique, each gang, and each outsider, and I speak all jail languages. I can be gangster. I can be a Bible thumper. I can be a wise elder. I can do makeup with Kiki and Nina and flirt with the trustees who deliver the meals. I can also talk to the guards in a way that implies I don\u2019t really belong here by using big words they\u2019ve never heard of but have to pretend they know so they can save face with an inmate. I also become the unofficial welcome wagon, making sure that everyone who comes into G has what they are allowed to have. If someone is missing their hygiene kit or a towel like I was, I bang on the window and demand the guard go get it. I am a friend to everyone but not too close with anyone. It\u2019s exactly as it was in high school. I become whoever I need to be to survive. But mostly I\u2019m a mom with nowhere to put my mother energy, so I listen. Empathize. Word gets around that I have a master\u2019s degree so girls who\u2019ve dropped out of high school start coming to me for advice. Problems are brought to me. Legal issues. I\u2019m given a nickname. Mama Love. And like any good mother, I lead with compassion. But all it takes is one stern look to bring the miscreants in line. Eventually Daddy brings me her court and legal papers and we talk over options and prison. The minute the unit sees Daddy deferring to me, a peaceful transition of power happens. It\u2019s subtle and unspoken but real. When someone has a problem with being disrespected by someone, wants to move off the freeway, wants to move upstairs, wants to make a commissary trade, wants to roll someone up, I\u2019m consulted. Daddy is there, too, but my opinion is always the final word. I write a one-page narrative poem about the girls in G being hooked on H and they make me read it out loud over and over. They have never been written about, their lives and struggles never put on paper. When they learn that a short story of mine has been published in a real book, I hear them telling their family about me on their phone calls. I don\u2019t tell them that a short story in a small press anthology doesn\u2019t make you famous or that right now is the first time I\u2019ve written anything in ten years. But now that I\u2019m on the top level I have endless paper, so I start to write. I start a young adult novel about angel guides who fall into forbidden love as the two teens they are guiding also fall in love. I mail the first eleven pages to Ty and ask him if he wants to write the book with me. He\u2019s an avid reader and at thirteen has already written his first novel. He writes in the way people do who are madly in love with language\u2014a maximalist who will go on to major in linguistics and speak five languages. I tell myself that his love of reading isn\u2019t for the same reason I loved to read as a kid. I tell myself he isn\u2019t trying to escape trauma, but it\u2019s hard to do that when I\u2019m telling myself that in jail. I write letters to my boys and ask them to read parts to Kaden for me. It\u2019s hard to talk to them on the phone some days because it\u2019s awkward and they are teenagers who don\u2019t love to talk on the phone to begin with. When they put Kaden on, he just tells me he loves his brothers but wants to come home. \u201cSoon,\u201d I promise. \u201cI love you so much,\u201d I say. The \u201creal power is quiet power\u201d mantra spreads through the unit, and people stop fighting so much and instead try to \u201cout-quiet\u201d each other. Power doesn\u2019t have anything to prove, I remind them. None of them know that I actually feel more lost and powerless than ever. My future is in limbo and there\u2019s no power in limbo. \n chapter 9 NEW YEAR, NEW YOU It\u2019s a year of firsts without my children. My first Thanksgiving without them. My first Christmas without them. I miss Kaden\u2019s fourth birthday on December 12, and Cody\u2019s sixteenth birthday on December 30. I am now someone who misses her children\u2019s birthdays because she\u2019s in jail. Shortly after Thanksgiving, Darcy sends me a Christmas card that shows her and my four boys. They are making a pyramid at the beach, and they are all in Santa hats. I think I know why she sends me this picture, and it is not to wish me season\u2019s greetings. I try to focus on the fact that they\u2019re all together, and safe. While Bryan was not the best husband, he is a great dad. Darcy couldn\u2019t have children, and while we were friendly as she got together with Bryan, things have been fraught this last year during my relapse. Darcy hired an expensive lawyer, and Bryan took me to court over custody. They wanted more time with them and accused me of being on drugs. They were right, of course, but I still denied it. I wanted to pretend I was fine and work things out with Bryan without lawyers or courts the way we always had. I didn\u2019t think it was any of Darcy\u2019s business, and I was afraid that if I had gone to them and said, \u201cHey, can you take the boys for thirty days so I can go to rehab and get my shit together?\u201d they would have used that against me in court. I was stuck. In jail, I choose not to think about the fact that my boys had said they didn\u2019t like Darcy. By their account: She screamed at them all the time. The house was never clean enough for her taste. She often hid out in her room. She got mad at them for eating her special food. She was always yelling at and fighting with their dad. Maybe it was true or maybe it was just kids complaining. Darcy and I had long pretended to get along for the boys, but I always felt like she resented me when I did well and celebrated when I did badly. Underneath the pretense was the simple fact that, no matter what, I was always going to be the mother and she was always going to be the stepmother. She could never change that or, perhaps, forgive me for that. After months of dragged-out mediation over custody, my arrest had settled it once and for all. I knew Bryan would take care of Kaden and love him while I was in jail. I knew Kaden would be happy as long as he was around his big brothers. Darcy was a necessary evil, but better than strangers. I sent her as much love and light as I could. I hoped her heart would be open to Kaden. I was grateful to her and wary of her at the same time. Now she holds my baby in this picture, and it feels like she is staring straight into my soul. Now she has all my children all the time. She has won. I push thoughts of Darcy away and try to stay in the moment. Jail is a great place to learn to meditate, and it\u2019s going to be my New Year\u2019s resolution. I sit on my bunk breathing every day of December\u2014first for five minutes, then ten, then thirty, until I can meditate for an hour without feeling like more than five minutes have passed. It\u2019s a way to beat crazy jail time at its own game. After an hour of meditation there\u2019s a feeling that\u2019s almost like getting high. Not quite, but close. I wish I knew how many hours of meditation would equal twenty Vicodin. When people speak to me, I practice being present and sending them love. I do this with the guards, with the judge and prosecutor when my case is continued yet again on Christmas Eve, with Daddy and Nina and Kiki and Vivian. I send love to the scared women who come in for their first time. I also make sure to tell them how everything works in G. I give them the orientation I never got. All day long I send love out to the world. To my children. My neighbors in Aptos. To DJ and Bryan. I even send love to Darcy, but then I think of her clutching Kaden and I take it back. I\u2019m not the Dalai Lama, after all. The other women tell me that I will definitely be going to prison and that I should start working out now so I can try out for fire camp. We go in the courtyard and do sit-ups and push-ups and walk in endless circles. No one can figure out how many times around the small courtyard is a mile. The guesses range from fifty to a thousand. On Christmas morning I wake up and walk around the courtyard for hours. I meditate as I walk. I meditate all day long so I don\u2019t have to think about life outside G block. The time between Christmas and New Year\u2019s is extra boring, so Daddy and I hatch a plan to break up the monotony. Leah, who is pregnant, will fake labor pains. She\u2019s only seven months, so Daddy has determined that this will be too serious for normal medical and as a holiday gift to us, she will get paramedics into the unit for our viewing pleasure and just to break up the monotony. She and Leah come into my cell as they are plotting the details. \u201cI need to know what labor feels like,\u201d says Leah. \u201cYou have a million children, coach me.\u201d I have nothing better to do so I agree. \u201cDo you get period cramps?\u201d \u201cYeah,\u201d says Leah. \u201cIt\u2019s nothing like that,\u201d I say. \u201cIt\u2019s like this pressure that builds, kind of from the back, and then it wraps around and tightens.\u201d I think back to all my labors with Dylan, Cody, Ty, and Kaden. \u201cIt\u2019s like no other pain there is when it comes. A tightness and a squeezing and sometimes the pain is so bad it takes your breath away.\u201d I know this is pretend, but I see in Leah\u2019s face the realization of what awaits her when she has her baby. She looks scared. I am about to say it\u2019s okay because it\u2019s all worth it, and you have this beautiful baby, and you fall in love like you\u2019ve never felt love before, but I stop myself. Her baby will be taken away from her in the hospital. She will give birth handcuffed to a bed. She will fall in love and have her heart broken at the same moment. Everyone is excited to start the New Year with visions of paramedics. Daddy pushes the panic button and calls the guards. \u201cLeah is going into labor. She\u2019s in pain, come quick!\u201d she yells. Leah has taken over an empty bunk on the freeway, so everyone can witness the performance. Two guards rush in and hover over her. \u201cOohhhh it hurts, it hurts\u2026\u201d she moans. They try to get her up, but she screams louder and says she can\u2019t move. Her performance is high-school-theater level, but it convinces the guards. One talks into his shoulder radio and instructs someone to call 911. It only takes about ten minutes for the paramedics to arrive. Firefighters also. There are four of them, and they are young and gorgeous. The guards lock everyone in the cells, but we watch through the windows as they stand around Leah. Within minutes two more paramedics come in with a gurney. We watch in disbelief as Leah is wheeled out of G. Right before she\u2019s rolled out the door, she flips us all the bird. The guards unlock the cells, and Daddy asks where they are taking her. \u201cDominican Hospital,\u201d one of the guards says. As soon as he leaves the room, there\u2019s a mad rush to the phones. Three girls call their drug dealers and tell them to get to Dominican Hospital emergency. Leah is on the outside and will be coming back in once they realize she\u2019s not in labor. This wasn\u2019t the plan, and I feel my power in G slip a little. Did Daddy keep this part of the plan from me? It\u2019s no secret that I don\u2019t use the drugs DJ sends me. I don\u2019t know if this was the real plan all along and Daddy says no when I ask. I\u2019m not thrilled at the idea of more drugs in G, but I could never say that. It\u2019s so hard to stay clean in G and I\u2019m almost at sixty days. I\u2019m proud of myself, but when they are around, the cravings are stronger than my meditation. In recovery they always say, \u201cIf you don\u2019t want a haircut, then don\u2019t hang out at a barber shop.\u201d There\u2019s no catchy platitude for when you\u2019re locked in the barber shop twenty-four hours a day. Leah doesn\u2019t come back before lockdown, so I go to sleep not knowing if she was met by a cavalcade of drug dealers in the ER. I am awoken by yelling. Patricia and I jump up. I slept in my clothes, but she is in her bra and underwear only. There are about ten guards in G shouting, all the doors are open, and the lights are on. \u201cEveryone out on the floor, now!\u201d they scream. Girls are running down the stairs. Patricia tries to grab her clothes, but the guard yells at her not to touch anything. There\u2019s yelling from Daddy\u2019s room, but I don\u2019t have a chance to turn back before we are all rushed out of G block. Shakedowns have happened before but there\u2019s usually some warning and people have time to hide their second mattress in the shower or tuck any contraband away in hidey-holes around the unit. Not tonight. The entire unit is marched through the jail until we get to the big holding room you pass through before you go to court. There\u2019s a giant wire cage in one corner of the room. It\u2019s square and looks like the temporary fencing that goes up around construction sites. We\u2019re all herded into the cage and stand there stunned as it\u2019s locked from the outside with a giant padlock. I look around at some of the regulars to see if this is normal, and I can tell this is not normal for anyone. I don\u2019t see Leah; she must still be at the hospital. I think about all the calls made to drug dealers. I had heard girls talking about the trick we played on the guards over the phone. After a while it\u2019s easy to forget that the guards are always listening to everything. It is freezing in the cage, and poor Patricia is half-naked and shivering. \u201cHey,\u201d I yell to one of the guards. \u201cYeah?\u201d \u201cCan you get her some clothes? She\u2019s freezing.\u201d I nod toward Patricia. \u201cYeah, sure, no problem.\u201d Thank God for small kindnesses. I give her a big fake smile and say, \u201cThanks so much! Hey, do you happen to know what time it is?\u201d \u201cWhy? You have somewhere to be?\u201d She laughs and walks away. I\u2019m guessing it\u2019s 2 a.m., maybe three. Girls are huddled together on the floor trying to fall back asleep. Daddy and Kiki and Vivian are whispering. I need to see what\u2019s up with them, but first I need to get Patricia dressed. The guard brings her some reds and a big beige coat. \u201cWhoa,\u201d I say, \u201cI\u2019ve never seen one of those before.\u201d \u201cBlaine Street coat,\u201d says Patricia. \u201cSo they don\u2019t get cold walking over to the kitchen.\u201d It\u2019s a huge coat, with thick canvas material on the outside and soft flannel inside. It\u2019s warm. It\u2019s luxurious. It\u2019s amazing. We\u2019re left in the cage for hours. Daddy is pissed because she has a lighter in her cell and doesn\u2019t want to get another demerit. The more demerits you get, the less credit you have to shave days or even weeks off your sentence. We sit in there through what would normally be breakfast time, and it\u2019s almost light out when they bring us back right before the shift change at 7 a.m. The guards don\u2019t say a word as they march us back to G. None of us have any idea what they were looking for or what they may have found. G is in shambles. The freeway mattresses are scattered all over the floor, and everything from the cells has been dumped haphazardly along the tier: books, letters, legal papers, blankets, clothes, toothbrushes. Family pictures painstakingly glued on the walls with toothpaste have been ripped down. Shelves engineered from empty maxi pad boxes have been crushed. Commissary items are scattered. It\u2019s like a Category 5 hurricane hit G. This wasn\u2019t an investigation\u2014it was punishment. We\u2019re all trying to sort whose belongings are whose when Leah comes back in with a big smile on her face. I can\u2019t deal with all of this and the temptation of drugs at the same time. I assume that\u2019s what she\u2019s smiling about. I quickly get on the pay phone to call my boys. If anything will strengthen my resolve it will be talking to them. Because DJ always has money on his books I use his S-number whenever I need to make a call. The system will charge his account. I dial his S-number and the operator says it\u2019s not valid. I think I must have done it wrong so I try again. I keep trying. If there wasn\u2019t money, it would say not enough money and to call collect. I have never heard the not-a-valid-number message. This is not possible. I run to my room and pick up one of his letters from the floor and look at the number on the envelope. I don\u2019t have the number wrong. I try to call again as panic sets in. My mind starts to conjure all sorts of disaster scenarios. He\u2019s overdosed and in the morgue. He\u2019s been shanked and is in the morgue. He\u2019s been taken off to prison now even though we haven\u2019t even had a trial or been sentenced. My hands are shaking. I don\u2019t know what to do. I have no money on my books to make a call. I call my mom collect. No answer. I don\u2019t want to call my mother-in-law. I\u2019ve tried to avoid her because I\u2019m pretty sure she hates me and it\u2019s just too much to deal with. I pace nervously around G, not sure what to do after the mess is cleaned up. I keep trying to use his S-number. Maybe the jail found out I was using it for my calls and shut it down. Maybe that\u2019s what the not-valid number means. Maybe this is more punishment. G block is excitedly listening to Leah\u2019s account of the ambulance ride and the real ice cream they gave her in the hospital. No drugs got through because they took her to the maternity ward rather than the ER. \u201cBraxton Hicks,\u201d she yells at me as I stand at the bank of phones. \u201cYou forgot to tell me about Braxton Hicks contractions.\u201d I shrug. I\u2019m just glad there are no drugs to tempt me. I gather my courage and make a collect call to my mother-in-law. I wait for it to connect, and I hear her accept the charges. There\u2019s a shuffling and cracking sound as if the phone has been dropped, and then I hear a man\u2019s voice: \u201cHello?\u201d \u201cHello?\u201d DJ says again. \u201cHello?\u201d I whisper. There is a long pause, and I feel as if G block just flipped sideways. I press my hand against the wall to steady myself. \u201cI got bailed out,\u201d he says. \u201cYou mean your mom bailed you out\u2026\u201d \u201cYeah.\u201d He\u2019s trying to keep the glee out of his voice, but I hear it. He is sleeping in a soft bed and eating good food and taking hot showers. He\u2019s been getting high all the time while I fight to stay clean, and he is free. I want to scream. I want to cry. But I swallow it all and try not to choke as it goes down. \u201cAmazing,\u201d I say. \u201cLook, baby, I\u2019m going to get you out of there, I promise. We\u2019ll be together soon.\u201d \u201cWhen did you get out?\u201d \u201cA few days ago.\u201d \u201cHave you talked to Kaden?\u201d He doesn\u2019t answer right away, and then he\u2019s angry. \u201cI\u2019m not going to call that fucking house!\u201d \u201cHave you not talked to him since we were arrested?\u201d I am shocked. I never asked, but I assumed he was trying to call and talk to him as much as I was. \u201cYou didn\u2019t call him on his birthday?\u201d I can hear DJ inhale deeply, and I realize he\u2019s smoking. \u201cLook, I have to go, we\u2019re about to go to lunch.\u201d \u201cWell, I don\u2019t want to keep you from lunching.\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s not like that, I need to do what my mom says, you know how it is\u2026\u201d \u201cOkay. Can you at least put some money on my books so I can call the boys?\u201d I realize that he\u2019s been out for a few days and hasn\u2019t done this yet. I know what he\u2019s doing with any money he has. \u201cOf course, and I\u2019m going to get you out. Who always takes care of you? I will sell everything we have.\u201d I doubt we have anything left to sell, but I don\u2019t argue. \u201cCall me tonight,\u201d he says. \u201cWait,\u201d I say before he hangs up. \u201cYou need to call CPS! You can do supervised visits. You can take the parenting class. You can start all the requirements. You need to right away or we\u2019ll lose Kaden!\u201d \u201cGotta go. I love you, homegirl.\u201d I hang up and head back to my room. I imagine DJ free and me in prison for years. I vow never to call him again. When I get back to my cell, Patricia has everything in order. She still has the coat, and it\u2019s laid across her bed like a comforter. \u201cLook what I found,\u201d she says, a huge smile on her face. She\u2019s holding a small radio. \u201cHow the hell did you get that?\u201d \u201cIt was on the floor outside the cage. When we left, I scooped it up and hid it in my nice big jacket.\u201d She adjusts the antenna, turns the dial, and gets a local pop station. And when Beyonc\u00e9\u2019s \u201cSingle Ladies\u201d comes on, Patricia turns the volume all the way up and moves the radio to the doorway. Everyone stops cleaning up the mess and starts to sing. I don\u2019t think about DJ anymore. I don\u2019t think about my boys. Just for tonight, G block is the only family I know. The only family I want to know. I smile and shimmy until lights out. That night Patricia is snoring, and I stare up at the darkness wide awake. I\u2019ve never been able to lie to myself between 2 a.m. and 4 a.m.\u2014those hours have always been when my conscience wakes me up with the truth\u2014since I first stole my aunt\u2019s jeans. I\u2019m too exhausted to use any of my Tolle tricks, so I lie in the dark and let every worry and fear and regret and pain settle in. I press play on my life and watch all my mistakes flicker past my mind\u2019s eye. I see my fake smiles and my posturing and my decades of pretending everything is okay when it isn\u2019t. I see all the lies I have told, all the untruths, all the omissions. I see every bottle of Vicodin I have stolen. I see every credit card I have taken. I see everyone I have hurt\u2014my boys, DJ, Bryan, Darcy, my mom, my neighbors, my friends. I see every ridiculous story I have told to hide my addiction. I see all the moments, years really, where I could have easily asked for help but my ego, my denial, and my shame prevented me. The thought that I was already in jail before I was in jail floats around in my mind, but it\u2019s both too ephemeral and too complicated for me to unpack. I try to look at my life as if it\u2019s a story and trace the plot that has gotten me to this bleak place, but there are too many missing pieces. I want to blame some moment for my addiction, some trauma, some loss. But mostly I want to blame somebody. Someone has to be responsible for who I have become, so I put the people in a lineup and try to pick out the perpetrator. My older sister was killed in a car accident. My brother died of a heroin overdose. My other brother had mental health issues and a gambling problem and often threatened suicide. I never had a father. I never had a mother who was present. I never had a normal family. My first husband cheated on me. My second husband is an addict who just abandoned me in jail. I don\u2019t know the language of grief or loss or emotions at all\u2014it was never spoken in my home. I can\u2019t remember a single time in my life when someone asked me \u201cHow are you?\u201d and I answered honestly. I don\u2019t think I have ever known how I am, or who I am. I have always felt like an actor playing the role of me. My whole life I had pretended to be a beautiful, happy, shiny person in the hopes that would somehow make me a beautiful, happy, shiny person. I fit in everywhere because people love beautiful, happy, shiny people. But the problem with me trying to fit in everywhere is that I have never actually felt like I belonged anywhere. Or with anyone. I couldn\u2019t reach out for help before the police came knocking on my door because I was so desperately playing the suburban mom role I\u2019d created. This is how a real mom shows up to school board meetings. This is what a real mom makes for snacks. This is how a real mom should sacrifice herself for her children. I vowed to be the mom I never had, but she and I turned out to be just the same. Absent. Gone. If my children need me tonight they can\u2019t call me. I wonder if showing up as a fake version of yourself is just as bad as not showing up at all? I run this idea around in my mind, poking and prodding at it to see if it holds up. It doesn\u2019t. The truth is, I would have preferred any version of my mom to being alone. So I am actually worse than my mom. I can study the people in my lineup and make them turn right and then left, but every time I try to point my finger at someone or something, I can\u2019t. There is no one to blame but me. \n chapter 10 ROLL IT UP Our public defenders are trying to work out a plea deal. Elizabeth comes to see me, and she is not happy that DJ is out, but super happy that I am still in. \u201cYou\u2019re safer in here,\u201d she says. \u201cReally? It doesn\u2019t seem all that safe.\u201d \u201cIf you were to get out and commit a crime, do drugs and get caught, the plea deal doesn\u2019t happen. You will go to prison. I won\u2019t be able to do anything.\u201d \u201cDo you know how many drugs are in this jail? I haven\u2019t done any, and I could have. A lot.\u201d She gives me a weak smile, but I want applause. I need some kind of validation. If I said that in a recovery meeting, I\u2019d get a standing ovation. It\u2019s the one thing I miss about twelve-step programs. They applaud anything as long as you don\u2019t use. You can burn your house down in a fit of rage but as long as you don\u2019t pick up, you\u2019re a hero. \u201cDo you think we\u2019ll get a plea deal?\u201d \u201cI\u2019m trying, but the DA is going at this hard. Probation too. They really, really don\u2019t like you. Your husband also, but they seem overly focused on you.\u201d \u201cBut not the actual DA, right? It\u2019s the assistant DA?\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s all the same. But it\u2019s the ADA and the head of Probation. They want prison. If you weren\u2019t a white woman, you\u2019d get prison for sure.\u201d I nod because it\u2019s true. Mimi, a Latina in G, just got sentenced to four years for embezzlement: using her company credit card for personal expenses\u2014more or less the same crime that put me in G block. Everything in her case happened ridiculously fast. Arrest, sentencing, and onto the prison bus in less than a month. Mimi has two children she\u2019s raising on her own. She supports her parents and grandparents too. When she left, she said she\u2019d see me in Chowchilla. She assured me that prison is much better than jail\u2014easier. She had family members in prison, she said, so she knew what to expect. You get more visits, you get classes and workshops, you can work and stay busy. \u201cDoes the DA look at all the cases?\u201d I ask Elizabeth. \u201cLike does he know about them?\u201d \u201cOf course.\u201d It\u2019s probably not helping my case that I once dated the current district attorney, and by dated I mean had a torrid affair with him while he was living with another woman. It was 1989, and I was in my last year of college and working as a manager at Player\u2019s Pizza\u2014a sports bar and grill around the corner from the courthouse. He would come in after work, alone or with coworkers. He was tall and blond and while he introduced himself as Tom, I immediately renamed him Sven because he looked like a Nordic god. I flirted with him shamelessly, and he began to stay at Player\u2019s until closing time, waiting for me to get off work so we could spend time together. Sometimes he would take me into the courthouse after hours and make love to me in all the offices, even once in what he called the gun room. Gun rooms are sexy, and I don\u2019t even like guns. He would spend hours at my small studio apartment, letting me read through his confidential case files and discussing strategy. He was a new assistant district attorney then, a decade older than me, and I was about to go off to graduate school. When I moved back to Santa Cruz after Dylan was born, we reconnected as friends, and I would sometimes visit him in his offices at the courthouse, where, knowing my writerly curiosity, he would tell me about cases he was working on and let me listen to 911 calls. He had never lost a trial, a fact he was very proud of. He was also bitter about his first marriage ending and shared how hard the divorce was and how upset he was about the claim she had made on his pension. When Tom ran for district attorney in 2002 on a family-values, law-and-order platform, I had to laugh. There were definitely no family values happening in the gun room, but that felt like a lifetime ago. Our friendship petered out as life went on, and now was impossible given that he was technically prosecuting me. It couldn\u2019t help my case that his new wife was high up in the probation department. I didn\u2019t know if she was aware of my history with her husband, but when Elizabeth says that Probation is taking a hard line on my case, I have to consider it a possibility. On one of our early court appearances, I saw him off to the side in a huddle with other attorneys, and I wondered if they were talking about me or one of the dozens of other cases before the court that day. I was too ashamed to meet his eye, and I imagine he wasn\u2019t eager to acknowledge me either. \u201cI\u2019m going to keep at it,\u201d Elizabeth assures me. She puts a hand on her belly again. \u201cHow\u2019s your son?\u201d She used to be a CPS attorney before becoming a public defender. \u201cHe\u2019s good. He just turned four. I talk to him when I can, but it\u2019s so hard\u2026 he doesn\u2019t understand why I\u2019m not with him.\u201d I tear up. \u201cHang in there,\u201d she says kindly. When I get back the unit is in a tizzy. Rooms are getting switched, and when I ask Daddy what\u2019s going on, she says that they got word Princess was in booking. \u201cWho\u2019s Princess?\u201d Daddy looks at me like I\u2019m crazy. At times like these my position in G feels tenuous. I don\u2019t know the players on the streets. I know there are girls everyone is afraid will come into G, and other girls they wish would come in. Apparently Princess is a big-time meth dealer\u2014the original lady boss\u2014competing in a man\u2019s world and making a killing. Patricia and I are split up, and I move into a room with Kiki. It\u2019s the last room on the top tier. A corner room, so it\u2019s the biggest. Daddy is next door. Patricia moves to the bottom tier. I\u2019m happy to move in with Kiki. She\u2019s smart and funny and tough and sweet. She\u2019s barely older than Dylan so I feel most like Mama Love around her. I\u2019m anxious that Princess\u2019s arrival will mean more drugs in G. It\u2019s almost rude of me not to do drugs that are offered, but I really don\u2019t want to. I\u2019m working on my YA novel and mailing pages to Ty to type up. My mind seems full of creative ideas. I jot down notes for short story ideas. I long for a keyboard. In prison I would have access to a computer. It\u2019s the only upside of prison I can think of. When Princess arrives, Vivian and Daddy rush her upstairs. She doesn\u2019t look like a drug dealer: She\u2019s tiny with long strawberry-blond hair, pale eyes, and freckles on her face and arms. I\u2019m obligated to meet her, and when Daddy introduces me, she just flicks her eyes in my direction and ignores me. I leave their huddle in Daddy\u2019s room and lie down on my bunk. I don\u2019t want to see what she brought in. That night Kiki gets permission from one of the guards\u2014the one who brought in the McDonald\u2019s\u2014to spend the night in Daddy\u2019s room. She asks for a sleepover, and he laughs and says okay. I can hear them through the wall all night long. It\u2019s a meth party for sure. And when the moaning starts, I recall Kiki telling me that when she does meth she just wants to watch porn and fuck. My meditation is no match for the threesome next door, so I just stare into the darkness. I think about my boys asleep just a few miles away and wonder what they are dreaming about. I send them love and light and sweet dreams. I hum their favorite made-up lullaby: \u201cMommy loves you, yes she does, Mommy loves you just because\u2026\u201d Dylan, Cody, and Ty are too old for lullabies, but I sing it to them anyway. I imagine myself scratching Kaden\u2019s arm so he can fall asleep. I hum all night long until the lights come on for breakfast. Kiki doesn\u2019t eat breakfast. Neither does Daddy, Vivian, or Princess. They divide their meals among the other girls when the guards aren\u2019t looking. If a group of inmates stops eating, it\u2019s a sure sign there\u2019s meth in the unit. The meth bender lasts for three days until the drugs run out. Nobody in the unit sleeps. It\u2019s a G-block rave, and the guards don\u2019t say a word. Everyone but me from the top tier is in a sleepover cell. Eleven girls crammed into two rooms. The guards even unlock the doors so the girls can go downstairs and get hot water from the hot pot for commissary cocoa. They must know there\u2019s meth, but there are no searches. Kiki is back in my room, and she\u2019s exhausted. She looks like she\u2019s lost ten pounds in three days, but I don\u2019t comment. It\u2019s commissary night and because my mom had put twenty dollars on my books I receive a batch of chocolate and ramen and new sandals. It feels like Christmas, and the unit is busy comparing hauls and making trades like my kids do with Pok\u00e9mon cards. Suddenly, the intercom in our room crackles. Kiki and I freeze. \u201cLove, roll it up!\u201d I look at Kiki and she looks at me. \u201cWhat did he say?\u201d I ask in disbelief. \u201cHe told you to roll it up,\u201d she whispers. I walk over and press the intercom button. \u201cYeah.\u201d It\u2019s the same guard. \u201cWhat did you just say?\u201d \u201cI said, \u2018roll it up.\u2019 \u201d \u201cWhy, what did I do?\u201d \u201cYou made bail; roll it up. You got five minutes.\u201d Kiki and I look at each other in silence, and then she screams. She runs into the hallway and announces, \u201cMama Love\u2019s getting bailed out!\u201d Daddy and Vivian run out and congratulate me. I hand them my commissary food and give Kiki my new shoes. I grab all my legal papers and letters. It\u2019s not much, but I look around the cell frantically. I hand Eckhart Tolle to Kiki. \u201cRead it,\u201d I say. She laughs. \u201cI hate to read!\u201d \u201cRead it anyway,\u201d I say. \u201cTrust me.\u201d Kiki folds up my mattress, and Vivian grabs my blanket and sheet. We all head downstairs just as the guard comes in yelling my name. Daddy walks behind us. It\u2019s all happening so fast, and I call out my goodbyes. Daddy grabs my arm. I think she\u2019s going to hug me, but she pulls me in close. \u201cYou know what to do when you come back.\u201d I pull back and look at her blankly. \u201cYou will know the date when you will be remanded. You will have time to prepare. Got it?\u201d I nod quickly. She\u2019s talking about drugs, but there\u2019s no time to clarify what she\u2019s asking for specifically because the guard is walking out the door, and I\u2019m running after him with everything in my arms. I\u2019m rushed through booking, where I turn in my reds and change into the clothes I was wearing when I was arrested. When I walk out of the jail, DJ is standing beside his mom\u2019s car waiting for me. He hugs me, and I hang on to him for a long time. The night air is crisp, and there are stars in the sky. \u201cI told you I would get you out. Who takes care of you?\u201d \u201cYou do,\u201d I say. \u201cYou do.\u201d And in this moment, I believe it\u2019s true. I feel warm and safe in DJ\u2019s arms, and for a brief mindless moment I believe it will all be okay. My mother-in-law is waiting in the car, and she barely speaks to me as we drive away. It\u2019s only when we start to drive over Highway 17 toward San Jose that I realize we aren\u2019t going to our home in Aptos. \u201cWhere are we going?\u201d \u201cWe have to go sign some papers at the bail bond place, and then we\u2019re going to stay at the Saratoga house and my mom\u2019s going to the San Jose house,\u201d DJ explains. His mom owns two houses in Silicon Valley that she splits her time in. He\u2019s talking so quickly that I wouldn\u2019t be surprised if he\u2019s high. \u201cNot our house?\u201d I ask. \u201cWe can\u2019t go there, remember?\u201d He looks back at me from the passenger seat. When I don\u2019t say anything he\u2019s suddenly angry. \u201cWhen they set that fucking ridiculous bail, they also set fucking ridiculous conditions.\u201d \u201cWhat conditions?\u201d I should know this, but I wasn\u2019t planning to be alive for long, so I hadn\u2019t paid attention in court. And I haven\u2019t wanted to read the legal papers because I didn\u2019t think there was anything in them I could take issue with. After all, I was guilty of everything they\u2019d charged me with. \u201cWe aren\u2019t allowed in our fucking neighborhood, so we\u2019re not allowed back in our house. The house we own. \u201cI don\u2019t know how they can do that when we haven\u2019t been convicted,\u201d he rages on. \u201cIt\u2019s supposed to be innocent until proven guilty. We can\u2019t go to our home, they can search us at any time, no alcohol, no drugs\u2026\u201d For the first time, I realize I\u2019ll never see our home again. I didn\u2019t appreciate it while I had it, and now that it\u2019s gone, I miss it desperately. \u201c\u2026 no computers, no contact\u2026\u201d I stare out the window as he rants. Even though I\u2019ve been inside for only two and a half months, the world looks unreal to me. I think about what\u2019s happening in G right now and whether my boys know I\u2019m out. \u201cWill we be able to see the kids?\u201d I ask. \u201cTomorrow we have to see our public defenders, then go to CPS and meet with the social worker. There\u2019s a lot to do tomorrow.\u201d I haven\u2019t had an \u201ca lot to do\u201d day in a long time. I can\u2019t imagine myself in offices, talking to people, dealing with reality. One of the best things about being locked up was that the outside world was locked out. I scan myself for inner strength, but all I sense is a faint pulse. If I rolled down my window, I believe I could float out of the car like an errant balloon. I feel untethered. My mother-in-law drops us off in Saratoga and heads to her home seven miles away. \u201cThank you,\u201d I call after her as she drives off. I walk around her house like I\u2019m visiting the moon\u2014it all feels so foreign and strange. It\u2019s a big, single-level ranch-style home with a giant pool out back surrounded by grapevines. We used to bring Kaden here to swim; it was always sunny and bright\u2014my favorite place to spend an afternoon. I open the fridge and gaze in awe at all the food. Eggs and butter and bread and fruit and vegetables. I open all the cabinets and find crackers and coffee and chips and almonds and pistachios. Four kinds of cereal. I sink into her leather couch and savor its softness. It has been so long since I\u2019ve felt softness. \u201cI\u2019m going to take a shower,\u201d I say. \u201cHot water\u2026\u201d \u201cWant company?\u201d DJ gives me a little leer, and I smile. \u201cLet me do the first one alone.\u201d I go into the bathroom and lock the door behind me. I reach out and open the medicine cabinet to see what\u2019s inside. There\u2019s nothing but deodorant and Band-Aids and eye drops. A bottle of Tylenol. Only after I close the cabinet do I realize what I\u2019ve just done. What\u2019s still automatic for me. I turn on the shower and there\u2019s a knock at the door. \u201cYeah?\u201d \u201cMy mom grabbed some clothes from the house. I have no idea what she brought you. She just threw a bunch of stuff in a box. It\u2019s next to the bed.\u201d \u201cOkay, thanks.\u201d I feel awkward with DJ. The few times we saw each other on the way to and from court felt furtive and dramatic and a little exciting. We were separated lovers. Husband and wife torn asunder. But now, here in this domestic setting, I feel just like I did before the arrest. We were headed toward divorce. In the last year, while we were ripping and running, I had cheated on DJ with a man I met online who lived in Oregon. When I was loaded, I had gone to a website that married people visit when they want to cheat. I had seen the man only a few times, and they were thrilling. DJ had found out, but we never really dealt with it, and then we were arrested. I look in the mirror before I get in the shower. I am still thin but not as gaunt and gray as when I was arrested. My diet of bear claws and mystery meat has not given me the rosy glow of health. Everyone in jail is dehydrated\u2014living on the equivalent of one glass of water a day. The water that comes out of the bathroom sink tastes like rust, and no one can stand drinking more than a few sips at a time. I bet there would be less fighting, less depression, less severe mental health issues in jail if there were clean water, fruits and vegetables, and food that wasn\u2019t so processed and rancid. I turn around slowly on tiptoe, trying to see my whole body. I haven\u2019t had a real mirror in so long, just the murky fun-house mirrors in G. I have more muscle thanks to the fire camp workouts. But I also have the corpse-like pallor of someone who hasn\u2019t felt direct sunlight in months. The shower is like going to church. I stand in the stream of hot water, awed by its majestic power, and wash away G block until the water runs cold. I want to cry, need to cry, but I feel so disembodied that the need isn\u2019t connecting to my tear ducts. In my mind I am sobbing and shaking because I\u2019m so scared of whatever might happen next. But after stepping out of the shower I feel robotic. In the bedroom, DJ has lit candles, and he holds out a soft robe for me. We make love, and it feels like nothing at all. I fake the pleasure to get it over with. Even with the full weight of him on top of me, I still feel alone and lost. After, I lay awake for hours among the soft pillows and blankets worrying about our attorney visits the next day, about what CPS will say. And I think of my boys asleep in their beds. I\u2019m even farther from them now than I was in G. At least in G I could think about them possibly driving by the jail on their way to basketball games or their friends\u2019 houses. When I took a breath in the courtyard, I could imagine them breathing the same air nearby. Sometimes I would exhale and imagine my breath flying through the sky, across town, and under the crack of the door in the house where they slept. I imagined that my breath washed over them, settling into their skin, their pores, burrowing deep until it joined the blood cells traveling through their bodies. I imagined that for a brief second they could feel my love as my breath pumped through their hearts. In the morning, we take Carol\u2019s car to go to our appointments in Santa Cruz. As codefendants we have separate public defenders, mostly in case one of us wants to turn on the other at trial. DJ drops me off at my attorney\u2019s office and promises to pick me up when he\u2019s done. Elizabeth is grim and angry when I walk in. \u201cThis is so dangerous,\u201d she tells me. \u201cI\u2019m working on a plea deal for you. I\u2019d rather you were locked up and safe than out. We talked about this.\u201d \u201cI didn\u2019t know I was getting bailed out,\u201d I say. \u201cIt was a surprise.\u201d \u201cWell, that surprise could end up meaning prison time.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m not going to do anything wrong,\u201d I say. \u201cI promise. I\u2019m over two months clean.\u201d She ignores my words and my sobriety. \u201cIf you steal, if you do drugs, if you break any laws\u2014you will go to prison. If you go to trial\u2014you will go to prison. If you do what your husband does\u2014you will go to prison. This plea deal is tenuous. People are really angry and they\u2019re going to be even angrier that you\u2019re out on bail.\u201d \u201cWhat people?\u201d \u201cYour neighbors. Your ex-husband\u2019s wife. The DA is getting all kinds of calls from them. You really pissed people off. They are putting lots of pressure on him, and he\u2019s angry at you because they\u2019re angry at him.\u201d \u201cWait, the DA or the assistant DA prosecuting us?\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s all the same, the ADA is the DA\u2019s office. The DA represents the people. The people are mad.\u201d \u201cI swear I won\u2019t do anything wrong.\u201d I don\u2019t know what else to say. She seems satisfied she\u2019s made her point and that I\u2019ve heard her. \u201cWe\u2019re working on a plea deal. You\u2019re looking at a year in jail, completion of drug court, and five years of probation plus restitution.\u201d \u201cHow much is restitution?\u201d \u201cAround nineteen thousand dollars.\u201d \u201cWhat? That\u2019s impossible.\u201d \u201cAnd you have to pay half up front in order to get the plea deal.\u201d She shows me all the crimes I\u2019m charged with. I read down the list\u2014many of them I actually didn\u2019t do. I try to protest, point out that I never stole anything from a vehicle at Costco, and that I don\u2019t know these people listed here who say I stole from them. \u201cIt doesn\u2019t matter, you can only argue each charge at trial. With a plea deal it\u2019s all or nothing. You\u2019d have to plead guilty to thirty-two felonies. With a trial you could be in jail just waiting to go to trial for as long as the plea deal sentence. And if you\u2019re found guilty it will be a much longer sentence.\u201d \u201cSo I either plead guilty to all of this\u2014even the things I didn\u2019t do\u2014or go to trial and most likely go to prison?\u201d \u201cThat\u2019s it,\u201d she says. \u201cWith drug court you can get your record expunged once you successfully complete it. That\u2019s a yearlong program after you get out.\u201d It feels unfair that I must plead guilty to crimes I didn\u2019t commit, but I shove that feeling away. I don\u2019t have the luxury of fairness. I get it\u2014every unsolved credit card crime, every property theft, needs to be solved, and someone needs to pay restitution. The DA gets to clear a bunch of crimes off his slate, the victims will get paid by me, and I avoid prison. I have no legal grounds to demand I pay only for what I\u2019ve done. I also have no money and no idea how I\u2019ll pay. But I\u2019ll plead guilty to a hundred felonies if it means I can be with my boys sooner. If it means I can get Kaden back before the CPS clock runs out. I feel nauseous. I push the list over to Elizabeth, but she hands it back to me. \u201cThis is your copy.\u201d Elizabeth hands me the restitution list, and I see all the money various victims and nonvictims say I must pay them, based on pain and suffering and days of lost wages because they had to cancel a credit card. I am surprised to find any of these people on a restitution list. If a credit card company or bank wrote off the debt, shouldn\u2019t I pay back the company or the bank? If you report a card stolen, you don\u2019t have to pay the charge. I see on the list one of my neighbors claiming lost wages at $

150 an hour. She works as an assistant in a medical office. That would be over a

$300,000-a-year salary. There are a million different ways for people to steal, but not all stealing is considered a crime. Nobody was going to get prosecuted for stealing from me. I shake this thought away. Who am I to judge? I\u2019m in no position to assess morality or integrity. I have no high ground to stand on. \u201cWith the time you\u2019ve already served, and time off for good behavior, we\u2019re talking six or seven more months in jail. You\u2019ll get moved to Blaine Street, and hopefully it won\u2019t be so bad.\u201d I start doing the math in my head\u2014trying to figure out if I will have time to complete everything CPS will require me to do. The one-year clock to get Kaden back started ticking almost three months ago. I obviously need to be out of jail. I need a job. A place to live. Drug testing. I need to take a parenting class. I need to go to counseling. I need to have supervised visits and prove to CPS that I can and will keep my son safe. I\u2019m not even sure I know how to keep myself safe, but for the first time in a long time, I feel hope. I don\u2019t care how much I have to pay or who I have to pay it to. A year from now I could be back with all my children. This could be behind me. I could be free. \u201cDo you really think I can do the plea deal? What about DJ?\u201d \u201cHe will have the same deal. Restitution will be joint and several, meaning you are both equally obligated to pay it back. And you both have to accept the plea.\u201d \u201cI don\u2019t know how we would pay nine or ten thousand up front.\u201d \u201cYou\u2019ll have to find a way.\u201d \u201cI guess I could put it on a credit card\u2026\u201d \u201cNot funny!\u201d she snaps. \u201cAnd you have to go see Probation while you\u2019re out. They do an assessment and will make a recommendation to the court on sentencing. Call and make an appointment right away.\u201d \u201cOkay, but if there\u2019s a plea deal\u2026?\u201d \u201cThey still make a sentencing recommendation. Anything can happen. The judge could reject the plea deal. It doesn\u2019t happen often, but it can.\u201d I say my goodbyes and stand out on the street waiting for DJ. It\u2019s all a lot to take in, and I\u2019m not sure I understand all my obligations. DJ finally arrives about half an hour later. \u201cWhere were you?\u201d \u201cMaya was quick, so I went and met up with some homeboys who I was in with.\u201d Maya is his attorney. \u201cDid she tell you about the plea deal?\u201d \u201cYeah, it\u2019s all some fucking bullshit with the charges and that restitution.\u201d \u201cBut we\u2019re going to take it, right?\u201d \u201cI want to go to trial.\u201d \u201cWe can\u2019t, we can\u2019t go to trial. Kaden. Think about Kaden!\u201d I am instantly angry and slightly hysterical. \u201cYou have to agree, you have to take this. We both do. You don\u2019t want to go to prison. Are you crazy?\u201d \u201cRelax, we\u2019re going to take it, it\u2019s okay. It\u2019s just some bullshit, though.\u201d In a way I envy DJ\u2019s anger. His lack of shame. \u201cDid you see that charge from\u2026\u201d \u201cStop!\u201d I say. \u201cI don\u2019t want to talk about any of it. I can\u2019t handle it. Do you understand? That was so hard to get through, and I have nothing left in me today.\u201d \u201cOkay, but now we have to go to CPS.\u201d \u201cI know. Let\u2019s just go and get it over with.\u201d The harried social worker seems surprised to see us even though we have an appointment. She shuffles through large stacks of files to find Kaden\u2019s. \u201cWhat about seeing Kaden?\u201d I ask. \u201cCan we see him?\u201d \u201cI\u2019ll have to talk to the Parents Center\u2014they are who we contract with to supervise the visits. They will coordinate with the foster parents and you. We just didn\u2019t know you would be out to do this.\u201d I realize there are no visitation plans in place because she didn\u2019t think we\u2019d ever be out. \u201cI\u2019ll call you when I know more,\u201d she says. DJ and I drive away, and all the hope I felt earlier is gone. I\u2019m hungry and tired and overwhelmed. \u201cLet\u2019s just go home,\u201d I say. Part of me craves the simplicity and isolation of jail. \u201cI just have to make a quick stop,\u201d says DJ. I lean the passenger seat way back and close my eyes. When I open them, I see DJ has pulled into a hospital parking lot. It\u2019s the hospital where I gave birth to Cody. \u201cWait here,\u201d he says. \u201cI\u2019ll be right back.\u201d \u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d \u201cI just have to pick something up,\u201d he says, jumping out of the car. It\u2019s almost 5 p.m. and getting dark. I sit in the parking lot for over an hour. We don\u2019t have cell phones or I would call him. A security guard taps on the window to ask me what I\u2019m doing, and I explain that I\u2019m waiting for my husband. \u201cIs he a patient?\u201d he asks. \u201cHe\u2019s visiting someone,\u201d I say, the lie rolling off my tongue with ease. I suddenly feel guilty and afraid. It helps that I\u2019m sitting in my mother-in-law\u2019s Mercedes. I am still skinny from my pre-jail diet of Vicodin and chocolate, but I\u2019m dressed nicely for our appointments so I don\u2019t overly concern the guard. And I haven\u2019t done anything wrong. DJ finally shows up, breathless and hurrying. He doesn\u2019t explain his absence, and I don\u2019t ask. My anxiety is building, and I recall my attorney\u2019s warnings. When we get over the mountain and away from Santa Cruz, he passes the exit to Saratoga. I still don\u2019t say a word. He pulls into an IHOP in a strip mall in San Jose and parks on the outskirts of the lot away from the other cars. He reaches under his seat and pulls out a velvet bag. In it there\u2019s a small metal tin, a lighter, a rubber band, and a clump of black tar heroin about the size of a silver dollar. \u201cI told you I met with some guys from jail while you were in your meeting,\u201d he says. \u201cAnd then I grabbed this from the hospital.\u201d He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a long, skinny object sealed in paper and plastic. In the dome light I can read the words BIOPSY Needle and STERILE. \u201cIt\u2019s huge,\u201d he says, \u201cbut it\u2019s all I could find.\u201d I have been driving in a car with drugs in it. I was in the getaway car while he stole from the hospital. I have already violated the terms of my bail agreement. \u201cYou\u2019re going to love this,\u201d he says as he pushes up the sleeve of my sweater. I am mute as he melts the heroin into liquid and draws it into the needle. Yes, this is something I swore I would never do. But I don\u2019t have the strength to resist. He ties the band around my arm. I watch as if from a distance as he sticks the needle in my vein. It stings and tugs and burns, and then he pulls back a little on the plunger. I see my own blood folded into the brown liquid, and then before I can even take a breath, he presses the plunger aggressively and empties the needle into my vein. For a moment I feel nothing, and then warmth spreads through me. Excitement. Joy. Energy. Every good feeling flows through me. The shower wasn\u2019t church, this is church. All the day\u2019s pain washes away. A part of me marvels at this new, more efficient way of getting high. No inhaling smoke through a straw for hours. No swallowing twenty pills. I\u2019ve always loved efficiency. I don\u2019t think about the fact that it\u2019s also a more efficient way of killing myself or that this is what killed my own brother. My attorney\u2019s words of warning are forgotten. My brief, fragile sobriety is gone. As the heroin swallows me like a pill, I close my eyes and pretend this is good. I pretend this is love. \n chapter 11 THE NEIGHBOR FROM HELL The heroin makes it easy to cope with what\u2019s to come, and I quickly learn how to shoot up all by myself. DJ\u2019s mom wants us to be where she can keep an eye on us, so we move into the spare bedroom in her San Jose house where she now lives full time. We lock the door and sit on the floor and start our day with the ritual of injecting heroin. Breaking off a chunk of the black rock and holding a lighter underneath a tiny, silver-dollar-size metal pot DJ has acquired from some DIY crafts store so that it liquefies. I have no idea how much heroin is enough, or how much is too much. DJ seems to be an expert, so he measures it out and draws it into the syringe. He has gone to a needle exchange place, so the giant biopsy needle has been replaced by dozens of tiny needles like the ones diabetics use. \u201cIt\u2019s great,\u201d he says. \u201cYou bring back the used, and they give you new ones.\u201d Once in a while I try to talk to him about the risk we are taking\u2014how we are violating the terms of bail and putting our plea bargain in jeopardy\u2014but he shuts me down. He assures me that because we live outside the county we won\u2019t be surprise searched. The more times I shoot heroin, the less I worry. I am living in the moment. It\u2019s a bastardized version of the present I learned about in The Power of Now. DJ and I soon realize that it\u2019s impossible to subsidize a heroin habit without getting a job or committing a crime. A job is out of the question since we\u2019re due to be sentenced in a month. Plus, getting high is once again our full-time work. So we have to brainstorm. One morning DJ disappears into the master bedroom closet. When he comes out, he is holding three suit jackets, all with the tags on them. \u201cYou won\u2019t believe what\u2019s in there,\u201d he says. \u201cTons of new clothes. All from Nordstrom.\u201d I don\u2019t understand what he\u2019s so excited about. The jackets are obviously his stepdad Freddy\u2019s, who is currently living in Iran. \u201cNordstrom has the most amazing return policy,\u201d says DJ. I shrug like he\u2019s maybe lost his mind, but I want to be polite about it. \u201cThe tags are still on. We can return these. For cash.\u201d I see where he is going with this, but I also see a problem. \u201cWe don\u2019t have the receipts,\u201d I say. \u201cWe can\u2019t return something without a receipt.\u201d \u201cYou can at Nordstrom,\u201d says DJ. \u201cLet\u2019s go!\u201d When we get to the store I refuse to go inside. I don\u2019t even like returning things that I have legitimately bought, so I\u2019m certainly not going to return something I didn\u2019t buy. They will see my guilt a mile away. I sit in the car and watch all the shoppers passing by. Are any of them doing nefarious deeds\u2014or am I the shadiest person in this lot? After half an hour, I start to get anxious. What if DJ has been arrested? The minute I think this, the drugs wear off. I am me again, and I am wondering what the fuck I\u2019m doing here. I vow that if DJ comes out, we will get clean. We will not do anything shady. We will focus on what\u2019s important\u2014getting Kaden back. I start to pray. When he finally emerges, he\u2019s not carrying the clothes and he\u2019s not in handcuffs. I exhale and try to read his face to see what emotion he is conveying. He looks pissed. I don\u2019t say a word as he gets behind the wheel. It\u2019s only when we are pulling out of the parking lot that he turns to me. \u201cA little over three hundred,\u201d he says before I can even ask. He says this so proudly, like a stockbroker with a bullish pick that has paid off. \u201cThere was such a long line at returns; we need to go to a different Nordstrom next time. And they gave me a hassle without the receipts. Asking how I had paid for the suits so they could refund the correct payment method. I got it done, though.\u201d And just like that I forget my parking-lot vow to get clean. The next time DJ goes into the closet he comes out with a giant bag of receipts. \u201cI think Freddy has every receipt for all those clothes.\u201d \u201cIt looks like he has every receipt he\u2019s ever gotten.\u201d We empty the bag onto the dining room table and start pulling out the Nordstrom ones, and then we try to match the receipt numbers to the clothes in the closet that still have tags on them. It\u2019s time-consuming, so I ask DJ why we are doing this if the return policy is so great. \u201cInsurance,\u201d he says. With our habit fully funded, we can focus on getting shit done. We meet with our separate probation officers for our reviews and find out they are recommending four years in prison. I\u2019m glad the twenty-seven years is no longer on the table, but four years means we will lose Kaden. The plea deal must go through. CPS wasn\u2019t prepared for us to be out on bail, and because we are temporarily living in a different county, they are stymied about how to handle this new development. I call the social worker every day to see if I can have a supervised visit with Kaden, go to court-ordered therapy, take some positive-discipline classes, anything that will move me closer to meeting their requirements for reunifying with him by the one-year deadline. But nothing moves quickly in the system, and CPS is waiting to see if I\u2019m sentenced to prison before they start me with services to reunify. I haven\u2019t seen my older boys once since I\u2019ve been out. Every time I try to arrange something with Bryan and Darcy, they are magically busy. I\u2019m desperate to see my boys, see how they are, see if they are angry or sad. I talk to them on the phone, but I need to hold them. I need to look in their eyes and be sure they are doing as okay as they say. I need to look in their eyes and see if they still love me. It\u2019s a tightrope to walk because while CPS has barred me from seeing Kaden without CPS arranging and controlling the visit, Dylan, Cody, and Ty aren\u2019t under the control of CPS. But they are under the control of Bryan and Darcy. I can\u2019t just show up at their house because that\u2019s also where Kaden lives. I don\u2019t feel like I\u2019m in any place to demand my right to see them. I\u2019m not even sure what my rights are while I\u2019m out on bail. All I know is I don\u2019t want to make Bryan and Darcy angry. DJ\u2019s ex is fine with him seeing Hailey and Logan while he\u2019s out, but I skip those visits. I don\u2019t have the energy to be a stepmom to them when I can\u2019t be a mom to my own. It\u2019s not kind, but it\u2019s true. Plus, I feel safer in San Jose than in Santa Cruz. I\u2019m too afraid I will run into a neighbor or a friend from recovery or a parent I know from school or the deputies who arrested me. I feel exposed in Santa Cruz. Vulnerable. In San Jose, I\u2019m anonymous. Cody is on the high school varsity basketball team, and when I find out last minute that they have a game in San Jose near where we\u2019re staying I decide to go to the gym. I can\u2019t wait to see him, even from a distance. I want to cheer him on. It\u2019s a workaround that doesn\u2019t require talking to and scheduling with Bryan and Darcy, and DJ agrees to go with me. When we arrive it\u2019s halftime, and the minute I step through the doors I look across the court and my breath catches. Kaden is dribbling a toddler-sized basketball. Our eyes lock, and he drops the ball and sprints over to me. I scoop him up and smother him with kisses and hugs. Bryan walks over. \u201cHey,\u201d I say. \u201cHey.\u201d \u201cI had no idea you would be here, he would be here. I don\u2019t know what the rules are with CPS when I run into him in a public place. I\u2019m sorry, I had no idea. I\u2019m not trying to do something\u2026\u201d \u201cI\u2019m not worried about it,\u201d says Bryan. \u201cI can just leave,\u201d I say, but Kaden is already holding on to my leg. \u201cIt\u2019s fine.\u201d Kaden sits on my lap for the second half of the game, and I kiss his cheeks and the back of his head every few seconds. He is warm and soft, and I close my eyes and inhale his scent over and over. He looks small to me, as if he hasn\u2019t grown a bit since I was arrested. I bring him back to Bryan when the game ends. \u201cThank you,\u201d I say. Bryan just laughs\u2014it\u2019s not a real laugh, just the way he laughs when things are awkward. I give Cody a big hug. \u201cCan I take the older boys to lunch in a couple of weeks?\u201d I ask Bryan. \u201cPlease?\u201d He is quiet. DJ is on the other side of the gym. He doesn\u2019t want to talk to Bryan, and I\u2019m annoyed that he can\u2019t be gracious toward my ex. Thankful, even. If it weren\u2019t for Bryan, Kaden would be with strangers. \u201cI guess so. Let me talk to Darcy.\u201d \u201cYou\u2019re their dad. It\u2019s not really up to her,\u201d I say quietly. I want him to grow a spine, but I get it. He just shrugs and picks Kaden up. \u201cLet\u2019s go, buddy.\u201d I blow kisses to Kaden over Bryan\u2019s shoulder all the way across the gym and until he\u2019s out the door. Cody lets me hug him again even though he\u2019s sixteen, and his teammates are watching, and I\u2019m his mom who\u2019s out on bail. \u201cI love you,\u201d I whisper in his ear. \u201cAnd I\u2019m so, so, sorry.\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s okay, Mom,\u201d says Cody. \u201cI love you too. Just get better, please.\u201d We are halfway home and I\u2019m in bliss, not because of any heroin, but because I got to hold Kaden, see Cody. When my cell phone rings, I answer it without looking at the number. \u201cWhat the fuck do you think you\u2019re doing? You are going back to jail!\u201d I recognize Darcy\u2019s voice immediately. She\u2019s screaming. \u201cYou aren\u2019t allowed to see Kaden; you just violated the CPS order. I\u2019m calling them in the morning.\u201d I panic and try to explain that it was an accident and that I had no way of knowing he would be there. \u201cBryan said it was okay,\u201d I say. \u201cI offered to leave when we came in, but he said it was okay.\u201d She hangs up on me. \u201cOh my God,\u201d I say to DJ. \u201cWhat do we do?\u201d I start to hyperventilate. \u201cIt\u2019s fine,\u201d he says. \u201cIt\u2019s not fine. It\u2019s not going to be fine.\u201d I\u2019m so scared I can barely breathe. Following all CPS rules is a condition of bail. If we violate bail, the judge won\u2019t accept the plea. \u201cCall the social worker.\u201d I call the social worker and leave her a long, rambling message about what happened. It gets cut off, so I call back and start all over again. I am awake all night watching the clock. I call again at 8 a.m. and beg the social worker to call me. All morning I sit and stare at my phone. Finally, at 1 p.m. the social worker calls. She seems unconcerned. \u201cIt happens,\u201d she says. \u201cIt\u2019s okay.\u201d She doesn\u2019t tell me if Darcy called her or what was said. \u201cWe\u2019re trying to arrange a supervised visit for you while you\u2019re out, but it\u2019s been\u2026 umm\u2026 difficult.\u201d I think I know the name of the difficulty\u2014the one screaming at me on the phone last night. When we hang up, I lie on the bed, relieved. This all has to stop, I think. We need to stop using. I say it and I mean it, but the truth is, I can\u2019t stop. I won\u2019t stop. And I have no idea why. My attorney was right, I was safer in G. I\u2019m not ready to be out in the world. I\u2019m not recovered, not even close. I\u2019m worse than I ever was. I can\u2019t stop hurting myself even when I know it\u2019s hurting my boys. I don\u2019t know how to cope with the normal everyday world of minor problems without drugs, so I certainly have no way to cope with life when my freedom is at risk. When my children are at risk. I fall asleep to these thoughts and wake up an hour later in so much pain I can\u2019t breathe. My left arm is swollen from elbow to fingertips. It looks like a giant balloon animal. If balloon animals were covered in track marks. I have no idea what it is. DJ is sitting on the floor preparing his medicine. \u201cDJ,\u201d I whisper. \u201cYeah?\u201d He looks up. \u201cCan you take me to the hospital?\u201d In the emergency room the triage nurse takes my vitals and looks at my arm, which is now twice as big as it was when I woke up. It\u2019s so swollen I can\u2019t bend my fingers. I have to hold the entire arm up with my right hand. I\u2019m like the girl in Willy Wonka who blew up into a blueberry. \u201cWhy did you do this to yourself?\u201d she asks. \u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d I say. I wish I knew. I wish I could say I did this because this one thing happened to me this one time. It would be so much easier for everyone. I wish I could trace it to being born prematurely, or early-childhood attachment issues, or being abandoned, starved, abused. I wish I could say it\u2019s because every time in my life I\u2019ve wanted to say no to someone I never have. I wish I could say it\u2019s because of karma. A past life where I agreed to be an addict in this life. I would blame it on my brain chemistry if I could, or a mental health diagnosis if I had one. It would be so much easier if every addict knew why they were destroying themselves. When I\u2019m on drugs, I feel happy, I feel like I belong in the world, I feel joy no matter what else is happening around me. Drugs give me what I\u2019m looking for, what I need and crave. The truth is simple: Getting high feels better than not getting high. And until that changes, no addict will change. I am admitted to the hospital and immediately placed on IV antibiotics. The heroin has caused a massive infection in my arm, and most likely it\u2019s been building for weeks. I just hadn\u2019t noticed. The doctors are worried about sepsis. When my fever spikes dangerously high I make DJ promise nobody will know I\u2019m here. \u201cThey can\u2019t,\u201d I say. \u201cNot Bryan and Darcy. Not the boys. Nobody!\u201d The doctors are pumping morphine into my system for the pain in my arm, which prevents me from detoxing. A week after I\u2019ve been admitted DJ comes to see me. \u201cMy mom and I went to the Aptos house and packed everything up. I got permission from the judge.\u201d \u201cDid you see any neighbors?\u201d I ask. \u201cNo. And I wouldn\u2019t care if I did.\u201d I don\u2019t understand DJ\u2019s anger. It\u2019s like he doesn\u2019t feel bad for what we did. I would be mortified if I saw anyone and I\u2019m grateful I didn\u2019t have to pack up our home. \u201cThey\u2019re foreclosing on the house,\u201d DJ tells me. I close my eyes. A part of me thought maybe I would still have a home for my boys when this was all over. I just want to make them breakfast and dinner. I want to be annoyed that I have to pick up after them. I want to sit on the edge of their beds and hear about their friends and their schoolwork. But it\u2019s gone. All of it. When I open my eyes, DJ is fiddling with my IV. \u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d \u201cI brought you a present.\u201d He pulls out a needle with brown liquid in it. \u201cWatch this.\u201d He quickly inserts the needle into my IV port, and the heroin flows through the tube and into my arm. A warm rush floods my system and I close my eyes. I surrender. This is who I am. This is what I do. There\u2019s an angry mob of about twenty people outside the courtroom doors. The mob is composed of my neighbors, and Darcy almost seems to be its leader, with Bryan by her side. Who is watching Kaden if they\u2019re both here watching me? DJ and I spent the night in a motel near the courtroom. We are to officially plead guilty to thirty-two felonies, and per the plea deal will each get one year in jail and a year in drug court. The judge still has to approve the plea and sentence, though. And after the court appearance, we\u2019ll go directly back to jail. We were up all night using and preparing to go back inside. When we get to the courthouse our attorneys meet us outside the courtroom and escort us away from the mob. \u201cWe have a problem,\u201d says my new attorney, Jonathan. He\u2019s Elizabeth\u2019s husband, and he\u2019s taken over my case while she\u2019s out with the baby. \u201cSomeone told the DA who told the judge that you were bragging about your light sentence. Someone told all your neighbors the same thing.\u201d I am shocked. I never bragged about anything, and I haven\u2019t talked to anyone about the plea deal. \u201cWe\u2019re going in to speak to the judge now, but I need to know what you said and who you said it to.\u201d \u201cI\u2026 I\u2019ve\u2026 never bragged or talked to anyone.\u201d \u201cYou must have. Someone knows the details of the plea.\u201d I suddenly recall the sushi lunch with my older boys. Bryan had agreed, and we had gone to one of their favorite restaurants. I had told them it was good news, that with good behavior, in six months I would be out of jail and we could get back to our lives. I wasn\u2019t bragging, I was reassuring my children their mom would be okay. I told them I could get my record expunged. I was trying to cheer them up. They must have told someone, who told someone, and like a twisted game of telephone, someone went to the prosecutor and the neighbors with a distorted version. \u201cSomeone told the neighbors and the DA you were laughing at them all.\u201d I don\u2019t want to think it was Darcy in a last-ditch attempt to put me in prison. I\u2019d much rather believe it was an angry neighbor; and given the sentiment of many of my neighbors it could well have been. Still, nothing gets the ex-wife out of the picture more completely than a long prison sentence. The extreme public humiliation is just a bonus. I shake the thoughts away, because ultimately it doesn\u2019t matter who it was. It\u2019s happened. It\u2019s happening. I risk a glance at the crowd. Darcy is staring at me, her hair perfectly coiffed, her makeup done just so, and her thin lips sneering. She is the Queen of Hearts yelling \u201cOff with her head!\u201d Her vitriol feels palpable. Maybe I am reading her wrong, maybe I am projecting, but it all feels surreal and I just want to be anywhere but here. Jonathan clears his throat. \u201cThe ADA and I are going to talk to the judge in his chambers. Sit here until the bailiff calls everyone in. I\u2019ll see you in the courtroom.\u201d We sit on a bench and wait for the bailiff to call us in. I can\u2019t look at my neighbors\u2014people I used to think of as friends. People whose houses my boys still play at. I care about these people. I care about their children. Their anger is hard to face. In the entire crowd of my neighbors, I stole from only two of them. It was wrong. I violated them, I know this. I am the perpetrator and they are the victims. They trusted me and I betrayed their trust. I want to run up to each one and say I\u2019m sorry. I want to hug them and tell them it wasn\u2019t personal, that it wasn\u2019t the real me, but I can only sit here with my head down. I think about the dollar amount I stole from my neighbors\u2014it amounts to a little over five hundred dollars for one family and I used another neighbor\u2019s social security number to get an Amazon credit card so I could buy a Kindle and a few parenting books. All together it\u2019s less than a thousand dollars that I have stolen from this mob of neighbors. We had to pay back nine thousand to get the plea deal. I know that what I stole amounts to more than just dollars\u2014I know that I betrayed all of their trust, their sense of safety in their own homes, and because I have hurt some, I have hurt all. I betrayed this community of cul-de-sac parents not only because I was their friend but also because addicts and criminals aren\u2019t supposed to host playdates and work on fundraisers and they aren\u2019t supposed to look like me. Addicts aren\u2019t supposed to look like them. Criminals are never supposed to live next door. When we go into court, I see someone with a camera off to the side. Every time he aims it at me, I turn away. I try to hold my hands over my face as much as possible and thwart his shot. I can\u2019t cover my face while the judge addresses me, but otherwise I think I\u2019ve avoided him getting a clear view. DJ sits next to me, and in the middle of the sentencing he falls asleep because he\u2019s high. I poke him in the ribs to wake him. One person speaks on our behalf, the director of a local rehab program who knows us and the judge. She stands up and says this is a health problem, a drug problem, not a criminal problem. The jail is overcrowded with people whose crimes are a symptom of their addiction. We are good people, she implores the judge, and the judge acknowledges that many people from the recovery world, people I helped in my six years of sobriety, have written to him on my behalf. DJ and I don\u2019t speak. Jonathan expresses my remorse for me. DJ\u2019s lawyer doesn\u2019t say a word. When the judge approves the plea, I glance over at Darcy. She is frowning. Everyone against me is sitting together with Bryan and Darcy on the opposite side of the courtroom. She and my ex don\u2019t even live in Aptos, so I don\u2019t know how they have become so close with our former neighbors. It\u2019s like a sad wedding where no one is sitting on my side during the ceremony, and the other side is all waiting for their moment to object. Our time out on bail has almost killed me, and I\u2019m relieved that it\u2019s over. Two weeks in the hospital has left me weak. Two months of injecting heroin has been two months too many. I just want to get to Blaine Street. CPS has agreed to bring Kaden once a week to see me there. He can sit in my lap, and I can kiss his chubby cheeks. My boys can visit me on the weekends if Bryan brings them. They couldn\u2019t come to the main jail where visitors are separated by plexiglass and have to speak through telephones. In Blaine Street we can visit in person, we can talk. I am wearing a long skirt and a light blue sweater. When I hold my arms out to the bailiff to handcuff me, I see that blood has seeped through the arms of my sweater. He sees it too. What he doesn\u2019t see is the tobacco, Vicodin, heroin, and two needles packed into an overstuffed condom and hidden inside me. It was uncomfortable sitting in the courtroom with a vagina full of contraband, and it\u2019s even harder to walk behind the bailiff. I can feel the package slipping. The van takes us to the main jail, and DJ and I sit in the reception area. We have to get new mugshots taken for our ID cards. A man in his early twenties is sitting in one of the plastic seats behind us. \u201cWhat are you two doing here?\u201d \u201cGoing to jail,\u201d I say. \u201cTogether? That\u2019s so cute.\u201d I turn to see if he\u2019s serious, and he is. It\u2019s not cute, and I\u2019m exhausted and just want to get to my bunk and lie down. I know I\u2019m going to detox all over again in G, but hopefully it won\u2019t be worse than the first time, which was bad but not so bad that a few hot water bottles didn\u2019t make me feel better. I know the girls in G will take care of me. Especially when they find out what I\u2019m bringing them. I can\u2019t go to Blaine Street until the classification officer sends me. Hopefully it will happen within the week. Now that I\u2019m sentenced, I can count down the days until I\u2019m out. Now that I\u2019m sentenced, I can make a plan with CPS for reunification. Now that I\u2019m sentenced, I can separate from DJ. I know I\u2019m about to be locked up again for three times as long as before, but in many ways it feels like freedom. I don\u2019t have to worry about anything on the outside besides my boys. DJ leaves first, and then a female guard I don\u2019t recognize takes me into the big room where we spent the night in the cage. I know there is a lawsuit pending about strip searches in the jail, it\u2019s been all over the local news, so I\u2019ve been pretty confident I won\u2019t have one. But now that I\u2019m here and about to change into my reds, it hits me how stupid it is to be carrying drugs in. If I get caught it\u2019s another charge, and I definitely won\u2019t get to Blaine Street. The guard has me walk through a metal detector, which is new. When I do it goes off: a loud shriek and a flashing red light. I hold out my hands, and then I show her I have no pockets. She pats me down and has me walk through again. Everything lights up and I begin to sweat. Fuck. I walk through for a third time and when it goes off I grasp at anything to explain it to her other than the needles in my vagina. \u201cI\u2019m wearing an underwire bra,\u201d I say. \u201cLook.\u201d I lean forward so she can look down the V of my sweater. She is quiet for a moment and then shrugs and says okay. She takes off my handcuffs so I can change, and I surreptitiously shove the package back up inside me while putting on the jail-issued granny panties. She gives me my bedding, and this time I know to ask for my hygiene and a cup. When I step into G, there is a moment of silence before everyone starts yelling, \u201cMama Love! Mama Love!\u201d Kiki and Vivian and Nina run up to hug me. Daddy is on the top tier next to a woman I don\u2019t recognize who is giving me the once-over and looking skeptical. Kiki pulls me up the stairs and into the room at the top I used to share with Patricia. \u201cThis is our room,\u201d she says. Daddy and Vivian pile in after her while Nina stands watch outside the door. I am happy to see them all, but I just want to sleep. A long day in court has taken its toll, and I can feel myself starting to detox. I\u2019m not ready for that. I\u2019m hoping to use what I brought in to medically detox myself\u2014taper my dose a little bit each day. I pull out the condom and empty the contents on Kiki\u2019s bed. While they look at the gifts I\u2019ve brought, I flush the condom down the toilet. The guards go through our trash. \u201cI brought two needles,\u201d I say. \u201cOne is mine. You guys can share the other one or not, but I don\u2019t share mine.\u201d I break off some heroin and give each of them a piece. \u201cWe\u2019ll share the tobacco,\u201d I say. \u201cThe pills are mine to help with detox.\u201d Nina opens the door, startling us. \u201cDon\u2019t forget about me,\u201d she says, quickly scanning Kiki\u2019s bed and our hands to see what we have. \u201cNever,\u201d I say, and I break off a piece of my heroin for her. When everyone leaves, Kiki and I quickly catch up. \u201cDid you get the deluxe chocolate package I sent to you from commissary?\u201d I ask. \u201cWas that you? I had no idea. It was massive. Thanks so much!\u201d \u201cOf course,\u201d I say. I couldn\u2019t use my real name when I ordered the commissary, because I had used a fake credit card number to purchase the pack. Kiki had helped me, and I wanted to help her. Plus, she loved chocolate. \u201cHow are things in here?\u201d I ask. She settles in to give me all the gossip from the two months I\u2019ve been gone. \u201cThings aren\u2019t the same in here since you left,\u201d she says. \u201cThere have been some bad fights. There\u2019s this one chick locked in solitary in Nina\u2019s old room below us. She\u2019s a fighter, but they don\u2019t have room anywhere else for her. Did you see all the sleds?\u201d \u201cWhat are sleds?\u201d \u201cThe plastic things all over the freeway that look like snow sleds?\u201d I hadn\u2019t noticed anything when I walked in. \u201cThe jail is at, like, double capacity. They are going to put sleds in all our rooms too. It\u2019s such bullshit. They aren\u2019t allowed to have so many people in here, but nobody cares.\u201d I look around the room and try to imagine another body living in here\u2014it seems impossible. \u201cI\u2019m getting to Blaine Street as fast as I can,\u201d I say. \u201cThey\u2019re going to let Kaden visit me there. I got a year sentence but with what I\u2019ve already done and good time I can be out in September.\u201d Kiki squeals and jumps up to hug me. \u201cWe need to make you a calendar,\u201d she says. \u201cI have paper and pencils. What\u2019s your out date?\u201d We rummage through my court paperwork until we find my out date. \u201cAfter dinner we\u2019ll get a little buzz on and then make your calendar. This is the best day ever.\u201d I smile. \u201cI just need to take a little nap though, okay?\u201d \u201cOkay Mama Love, whatever you need!\u201d Kiki bounces out of the room, and I know the giddiness she is feeling. It\u2019s the high before the high. Her dopamine is firing just thinking about the little piece of dope hidden in her bra. I get under the covers and curl up on my side. I push the images of the day in court\u2014Darcy, my neighbors, the reporter\u2014out of my head, and I sleep like I have just run a marathon. When I wake up the next morning, I see that Kiki has made me a calendar and taped it on the wall beside my bed. Yesterday is crossed off. It feels like progress. Like hope. When breakfast comes, there\u2019s a guard I haven\u2019t seen before. He\u2019s about my age with short brown hair with a little gray at the temples and a big smile. He\u2019s someone I would talk to if I ran into him at a bookstore or a bar\u2014he\u2019s tall and cute and I\u2019ve always been a sucker for gray temples. He hands me my tray and I give him a big smile. \u201cGood morning,\u201d I say. \u201cThank you.\u201d \u201cWait,\u201d he says as I start to turn away. \u201cI have something else for you.\u201d When I turn back around, he\u2019s holding today\u2019s paper. \u201cYou\u2019re famous. Or infamous. Should I call you \u2018The Neighbor from Hell\u2019?\u201d \u201cWhat?\u201d \u201cYou can have this one.\u201d He hands me the Santa Cruz Sentinel and on the front page, in full color, is my face looking up plaintively. The reporter got the shot. My picture takes up the full half above the fold, the article is below. I see the headline and my stomach drops. APTOS \u201cNEIGHBORS FROM HELL\u201d SENTENCED IN MASSIVE ID THEFT CASE. The guard laughs and picks up the next tray. I bring the paper over to the table and sit my tray on it so I don\u2019t have to look at my picture. I think about my boys going to school today and seeing this. I think about everyone who has ever known me seeing this. I used to coach Little League, I was on the school board, I was a real estate agent way back when I first left Bryan\u2014everyone I ever did business with is seeing this. I think about the parents of all my boys\u2019 friends, their teachers, their coaches\u2014all reading this headline. Massive ID Theft Case. Daddy sits next to me with her tray. \u201cWhy did he give you a paper?\u201d she asks. \u201cBecause I\u2019m on the front page.\u201d \u201cNo way. Give it to me.\u201d \u201cNo,\u201d I say, but Daddy has already pulled it out from under my tray, and she\u2019s hollering, \u201cMama Love is in the papers!\u201d \u201cStop, please\u2026\u201d Daddy starts reading the article out loud. I don\u2019t want to know what it says. Everyone gathers around as she reads it. G block thinks this is funny, but I can\u2019t listen. I put my hands over my ears and run up the stairs to my room. I can\u2019t breathe. My ears are ringing. This isn\u2019t funny, it\u2019s a disaster. It\u2019s my disaster. I will never be able to show my face again in Santa Cruz. When I get out of here, I will have to move. Daddy and Kiki come into the room with the paper. \u201cHey, sorry,\u201d says Daddy. \u201cIt\u2019s okay,\u201d I say. \u201cI get it.\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s a great picture,\u201d says Kiki. \u201cYour skin looks so good.\u201d They\u2019re trying to be kind, and kindness is precious in jail. I offer them a weak smile. \u201cYou want your tray? Nina is guarding it.\u201d \u201cNo, I\u2019m not hungry.\u201d Daddy has the paper in her hand. \u201cHere,\u201d she says. \u201cI don\u2019t want it. Can you rip it up and throw it away?\u201d Daddy nods. \u201cAt least we can have coffee and a cigarette. Should we post up on the steps outside?\u201d Kiki seems antsy and I know it\u2019s because of the stuff I brought. I throw her the tobacco and papers. \u201cYou go ahead.\u201d After she leaves, I look at Daddy. \u201cSo how bad is it\u2026 the article?\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s not great.\u201d \u201cThat\u2019s what I figured.\u201d I stay high for the next few days and try not to think about the article. When my heroin is finally gone, I go to bed early but wake up a few hours later, shortly after lights out. I am feverish and sick. It feels too quick, but there\u2019s no mistaking this for what it is\u2014I\u2019m detoxing, and it\u2019s coming in hot. I run to the metal toilet and vomit. \u201cSorry,\u201d I say to Kiki when she wakes up. \u201cSor\u2026\u201d I can\u2019t get any more words out, and the vomiting goes on for hours\u2014long after there is nothing left to get out. I hang on to the toilet\u2019s cold rim and shiver and shake while Kiki softly snores. In the early morning everything comes out the other end, and I beg Kiki to give me privacy. It\u2019s only 4 a.m., but I can\u2019t be so sick sitting on a toilet with someone in the same small room. \u201cThe doors are still locked, where can I go?\u201d Kiki asks grumpily. \u201cI know\u2026\u201d I cry. \u201cI\u2019m sorry.\u201d When the locks pop at breakfast, Kiki runs out of the room. I have never felt so ill. Liquid is pouring out of my nose and eyes. I have never detoxed like this. I know there is Vicodin under my pillow but it won\u2019t help me now. I can\u2019t even swallow water. Kiki checks on me at lunch. I am lying with my cheek against the cold cement at the base of the toilet. I can\u2019t get up, but I tell her I\u2019m fine. One minute I am freezing cold and the next I am burning hot. This is death, I think, this is the death I deserve. At dinner, Kiki comes back in. I try to tell her again that I am fine, but my mouth can\u2019t form words. I vaguely hear her yelling and I think she is pushing the button, but I am watching from far away, and she is just a tiny, blurry speck on a vast horizon in this small cell. I don\u2019t register the two guards pulling me off the floor and half carrying me down the stairs and out of G. I come to in the medical unit, and the nurse is pissed. The classification guard is standing over the bed as well. \u201cYou must have brought something in with you to be so sick now,\u201d he says. I think of the drugs under my pillow, and I hope Kiki hid them. They will search the room. I am so, so stupid. I risked my whole family yet again for what\u2014to belong in G? To be a big deal there? \u201cI just have a slow metabolism,\u201d I whisper. He shakes his head in disgust. \u201cYou need fluids,\u201d says the nurse. She hands me some Pedialyte. \u201cAnd there\u2019s an abscess in your arm. It\u2019s infected. You\u2019re going to get antibiotics three times a day until it clears.\u201d I have nothing to say in my defense so I sleep. When I get back to G days later, the worst of my detox is over. Kiki is waiting in our room and seems nervous when she sees me. \u201cI\u2019ve never seen anyone so pale before,\u201d she says. \u201cI thought you were dead.\u201d \u201cI was,\u201d I say. \u201cI kept pushing the button and screaming until they came. It fucking took forever, the motherfuckers.\u201d \u201cThanks,\u201d I say. I look over at my pillow. \u201cDid you hide the stuff?\u201d Kiki looks down and away. \u201cYeah.\u201d \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d \u201cWell, I didn\u2019t think you were coming back\u2026\u201d I realize she must have taken the rest of what I brought in and used it or traded it. In the normal world of jail this would be cause for someone to get rolled up and probably a beatdown. \u201cI don\u2019t care,\u201d I say. \u201cI\u2019m done.\u201d Kiki is relieved and instantly solicitous. \u201cLet me make you some hot water bottles. Oh, and mail came last night for you. It\u2019s under the blanket.\u201d I pull out a large manila envelope and get under the blanket. I don\u2019t recognize the name or PO box for the return address. It says Mary Hill. I don\u2019t know a Mary Hill. I open it up and there\u2019s a giant stack of printed pages\u2014at least fifty. The first few pages are a photocopy of the newspaper headline and article. Somebody made sure to reduce the size so it fit on a normal page of paper. After the article and in the dozens of pages after is a printout of what must be the online comments to the article. I start reading them and don\u2019t stop for an hour. Someone writes \u201cher poor boys,\u201d and then I see a comment from what must be Darcy writing back: \u201cthe boys are fine.\u201d Others talk about how they used to see me at NA meetings\u2014so much for twelve-step anonymity. I can figure out who a few of the commenters are by their usernames. Others are strangers, though. Hundreds of them. Saying I should be in prison, calling me a sociopath, saying I am the worst kind of person in the world. People who are outraged that I am not going to prison. And then there are the more ominous ones. There are ways to make sure people like that go back once they get out. They will get theirs on the street. I read the comments over and over. And each negative word burrows through my skin and latches onto my bones. The hatred, the vitriol, the threats become a chorus in my head. It sings to me a song of my own badness, and the melody settles in and plays on repeat. Everything I have been before this moment\u2014daughter, sister, student, teacher, wife, neighbor, volunteer, employee, boss, coach, friend, mother, human\u2014is gone. The community has spoken. Everything I have been is now erased. There are so many names for me in these comments. I am a criminal, a thief, an addict, a felon, a plague on society, a sociopath, a liar. The Neighbor from Hell. \n chapter 12 PUSH AND PULL I can\u2019t go to Blaine Street until the abscess clears, and each passing day makes me more anxious. Daddy leaves for prison, and two of the girls that people had feared coming in from the streets have arrived\u2014Christina and Denise. We shuffle the rooms, and Kiki and I move back to the big corner room. There are almost more sleds than bunks on the freeway and almost every locked-door cell has a sled in it too. Christina moves into our room and takes an instant dislike to me because I don\u2019t fawn over her. I have no idea who she is from the streets, but Kiki defers to her. Because Christina doesn\u2019t like me, Kiki starts treating me differently when she\u2019s around. It hurts. Every day for a week, a new fight breaks out because someone looked at someone wrong. The overcrowding has made everyone grumpy, and girls press the buzzer to go on time-outs every hour. The guards are stressed. Tensions and tempers rise. Mama Love\u2019s way of doing time in G is no longer the way. There is bloodshed, there is division among races. The whites and the Latinas who affiliate with the southern, or Sure\u00f1o, gangs fight with the Blacks and the Latinas who identify with the Norte\u00f1o, or northern, gangs. There is also rivalry between the Westside and Eastside Gs of Santa Cruz, which, despite the confusing geography, also line up with the Sure\u00f1os and Norte\u00f1os in ways I can\u2019t decipher. Christina has brought in meth. She and Kiki do it and are up all night having sex and I am forced to listen. The next day Kiki takes me aside. \u201cYou need to do some meth.\u201d \u201cWhat? No\u2026 why?\u201d \u201cChristina doesn\u2019t trust you\u2014she thinks if you don\u2019t do some, you\u2019re a snitch.\u201d \u201cThat\u2019s ridiculous,\u201d I say. But there is no logic in G and certainly not with Christina. Her man is a big-time drug dealer, and all the girls are afraid of him. His power gives Christina power. I don\u2019t know him, and unless she\u2019s driving carpool someday, I doubt I will ever see her after G. I can\u2019t have any trouble if I want to get to Blaine Street. Kiki is stuck in G for her entire two-year sentence this time because she has too many marks against her for smoking and fighting. She\u2019s also banned because one time when she was in Blaine and working kitchen duty she walked up to the edge of the river that runs along the parking lot and they called it an escape attempt. But she just wanted to see some real water on her way to work. \u201cShe\u2019s talking about fighting you.\u201d I laugh at the idea of fighting Christina, of fighting anyone. I don\u2019t know how to throw a punch. Kiki is quiet. \u201cI don\u2019t think you get that this is serious.\u201d She whispers, as if Christina is in the room with us. \u201cYou want to get to your son, you need to do a line and hang with her. Or she can make it so you don\u2019t get to Blaine. Even if you don\u2019t start it, if you are in a fight, you can\u2019t go. She\u2019ll make sure the guards know you two fought. She\u2019s done it before. And you can\u2019t tell her I told you this. And if you tell her the reason you are not doing it is because of your son, she will make sure you don\u2019t get to Blaine. She has two kids in the system. No parental rights. They were adopted.\u201d Kiki seems legitimately scared, and now I\u2019m scared too. When Christina comes in, I avoid looking at her and just stay in my bed and turn to the wall. \u201cLove,\u201d she snarls, making my last name into something sarcastic. \u201cWhat?\u201d I turn around and see that she\u2019s standing over my bed. \u201cAre you going to party with us or what?\u201d Kiki is nodding over her shoulder. \u201cI don\u2019t do meth,\u201d I say. \u201cIt makes me too annoyed at everyone. I\u2019m not into speedy drugs.\u201d I say this like I\u2019m telling someone I don\u2019t drink boxed wine. I even sound snooty to myself. \u201cDo it or move to the freeway,\u201d she says. I look to Kiki, but she\u2019s not meeting my eye. \u201cAnd if you move to the freeway we are going to meet in the downstairs bathroom. Or you can be chill and roll with us. I only have a little left, you should be grateful I want to share with you.\u201d I am not grateful. \u201cYou don\u2019t need to waste it on me,\u201d I say. \u201cIt\u2019s not a waste, it\u2019s insurance. I don\u2019t know you or who you reppin\u2019.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m reppin\u2019 Aptos,\u201d I say, and I make an \u201cA\u201d with my hands. She doesn\u2019t think it\u2019s funny. Kiki is getting agitated. I can\u2019t get in a fight. It\u2019s a no-win situation. \u201cMaybe just a little,\u201d I say. Kiki stands watch while Christina shakes out a small line of meth on the edge of the sink. She hands me a rolled-up page of a book as a makeshift straw. I get up slowly and walk over to the sink. I look Christina in the eye, so she thinks I\u2019m unbothered. I lean over and snort the meth as gently as I can. It burns my sinuses, and my eyes water, and I can feel it hit my system instantly. I really do hate speedy drugs, and not sleeping is my least favorite thing to do in G. Now I will be up all night with nothing but regret and racing thoughts to keep me company. I hate the meth immediately. I am anxious and self-conscious and paranoid. After lights out, Christina tells a pointless hour-long story about when she was four and thought her toys were real, and I want to jab a spork in my eye. I feel stupid for being afraid of her, for pretending like I did it because it would be rude not to. Like refusing a glass of wine at a book club, or not eating the cookies at a PTA meeting. I realize I could have just rolled myself up. What do I care where I wait to go to Blaine? I lay in the dark listening to my cellmates\u2019 meth-fueled sex in the bunk above me and wishing for sleep. When they\u2019re done, Christina starts talking. \u201cHey, Love\u2026\u201d \u201cWhat?\u201d \u201cYou ever been to Blaine Street?\u201d \u201cNo.\u201d She knows I haven\u2019t\u2014she knows this is my first stint in County. \u201cWell, I hope they don\u2019t come tomorrow for you to go over.\u201d \u201cWhy?\u201d \u201cThey drug test everyone there first thing, and if you test dirty, they send you back to the main jail and you don\u2019t ever get a chance to go there again.\u201d She and Kiki start laughing. I\u2019ve been set up. Kiki was an accomplice, and her betrayal hurts. After they fall asleep, I get up and go to the sink. I put my mouth under the faucet and drink and drink as much of the rusty rancid water as I can. I don\u2019t know how long a little bit of meth stays in your system. When I can\u2019t drink any more without vomiting, I lie down. In the morning I pack up my stuff and move down to the freeway. I don\u2019t speak to Kiki again. Vivian tells me I can come to her room, but I don\u2019t want to. I am done with the upper tier. I just want out of G, desperately. An hour before lunch a guard comes in and asks who wants to go to church service. I throw on my red shirt and grab my ID card. Anything to get out of here. In the service I tune out on the Bible readings and get lost in my head. I know I can\u2019t have a life and use drugs. I know I will have to find something other than drugs to fix whatever is broken in me, but I don\u2019t know how to do that. I realize I haven\u2019t thought about DJ since we were sentenced a couple of weeks ago. I am relieved to be away from him. I will need to fix that, too, one way or another. I\u2019m so disappointed in myself for doing the meth. I gave in to Kiki and Christina\u2019s stupid plan. I put my head down on the table and cry silently. I know that the only thing I need to change is everything. The chaplain, a woman about ten years older than me, tells us that anything we ask for sincerely in prayer, if it\u2019s for the greater good, will come to us. She tells us to pray right now before we leave. I pray for my desire to use drugs to go away. Forever. I cry silently into my arms, and when everyone gets up to leave I am the last one. The chaplain stops me at the door. \u201cDid you pray for something?\u201d I nod. \u201cSomething big?\u201d I look at her, and my tears start flowing again. She opens her arms and I go into them. She hugs me, and I hug her back. She\u2019s not allowed to, but she does. This hug means everything. Back in G, I go straight to my bunk on the freeway and turn to the wall. I continue my prayer. I don\u2019t know how I feel about God, so I pray to the universe. I pray to find my path, my purpose, my goodness, my soul. I pray for the strength and power and bravery I\u2019ve given lip service to. I pray that whatever I need, I can find inside myself, because that\u2019s all I have. I pray to the better version of me. I pray to the soul behind the ego, the brokenness, the fear. I pray to whom Eckhart Tolle calls the observer. The me that is watching me. I pray to Eckhart Tolle himself. I throw in Oprah because I know those two hang out a lot together. I spend the next three hours praying and visualizing a new life. I imagine writing about my experience. I imagine standing onstage talking about my mistakes. I imagine a home of sunlight and happy faces. I imagine my boys all sitting around the dinner table. I try not to think that Dylan will graduate high school in a few months and I won\u2019t be there. That he will go off to college maybe before I even get out. I try not to think about the fact that our home is gone, my car has been repossessed, I don\u2019t even have my driver\u2019s license because I wasn\u2019t out to pay an old ticket in November. I have lost my business. I have no job to support me or my boys or this imaginary place where we sit at a dinner table with sunlight streaming through the windows. I have destroyed everything. I have no idea what I will do when I walk out of jail in September, or where I will go, or if anyone will help me. Who would possibly hire the neighbor from hell? All these thoughts swirl in my head until I refocus and go back to prayer. The only solution is to never use drugs again. Today is March 18, 2009. My new birthday. I\u2019m told to roll it up for Blaine Street a few days and many gallons of water later. I am nervous while I take the urine test, but I pass. I tell myself that this is the last drug test I\u2019ll ever have to worry about since I\u2019ll never use again. Blaine Street has its own kitchen and serves meals that are cooked in-house. Other luxuries include a sparse backyard with a dirt track around it, a badminton net, a small gym with an exercise bike and a treadmill. There is no freeway like in G, only four sets of dorm-style rooms on two levels. Each quad, as they\u2019re called, is framed around a central dayroom with couches and chairs and its own television. There is a communal bathroom for each quad with actual stalls for privacy and porcelain sinks with mirrors and two genuine bathtubs. The bunk beds have real mattresses and even a pillow. There is a desk and a radio and a lamp. In Blaine we are given large T-shirt nightgowns to sleep in, and we get to change out our other clothes twice a week rather than twice a month. Blaine is the Ritz-Carlton compared to G. Volunteers come in after dinner each night and teach us to crochet or tell us about reentry services. There is a class on relapse prevention taught by a woman named Tracy who I instantly love. She\u2019s direct and no-nonsense, and we hit it off immediately. There are even volunteers who will come in and do your hair. There\u2019s a chaplain and religious services. A computer class if you need computer training. Music. Board games. And work. Lots of work. Each day you must clean your room before 7 a.m. Beds have to be made military style. Floors are mopped daily. Bathrooms cleaned. All are subject to inspection at 7 a.m. Once a week, on Sundays, it\u2019s double scrub\u2014in-depth cleaning, closets organized, every surface, knob, and wall scrubbed to perfection. Once the daily chores are done, the girls at Blaine Street go to the main jail to clean and cook for the entire facility\u2014without them the jail would cease to function. I\u2019m assigned to clean the public lobby of the main jail and the sheriff\u2019s offices. I start work at 6 a.m. Only one deputy comes into the main office that early, and we chat it up every day. She calls her mom every morning, and after a couple of weeks she hands me the phone so I can say hello. Her mom always asks if I\u2019m doing okay and staying out of trouble, and I assure her that I am. And I\u2019ve let everyone know at Blaine Street I am not getting involved with anything shady. I know there are probably drugs waiting to be couriered under the tampon bags in the public stalls that I clean, but I don\u2019t look. If anyone asks me to check, I tell them to fuck off. During my mornings emptying trash bags and cleaning bathrooms, I think about how much Blaine Street relies on women\u2019s unpaid labor. If Blaine were empty, the jail would be in trouble. No meals. No cleaning. It\u2019s a system completely disincentivized to rehabilitate people. Their business model doesn\u2019t function without a high recidivism rate. If all the women in County were successful, exhibited good behavior, and became productive members of society, it would break the county budget. The sheriff\u2019s department couldn\u2019t afford hiring actual workers, so local taxes would get raised. People could barely afford the cost of living in Santa Cruz as it was, and proposing higher taxes rarely went well for local politicians regardless of the reason. Recidivism was the only financially viable path forward. The only way for the government to win is for the inmates to lose. It\u2019s as simple as that. There\u2019s an actual library at Blaine Street, and I read every volume. My new favorite is The Book of Awakening by Mark Nepo. It\u2019s organized in daily dated essays, and I read it like a horoscope\u2014looking for whatever wisdom I need to get through this particular day. It\u2019s uncannily accurate. One of his observations resonates especially strongly with me: Pain pushes you until vision pulls you. After lights out, I lay in my bunk bed and try to trace my life back to the moment when I stopped letting a vision for my future pull me and started letting pain push. Because I did have a clear vision at one point. And it didn\u2019t have anything to do with marriage or money or motherhood. From the time I first escaped into books, all I wanted was to be a writer. I was going to write novels that moved people, that helped them understand the world and themselves better. I wanted to make people feel, whether it was laughing or crying. And if the vision also had me rich and famous and fabulous, I was okay with that. Writing was always the only way for me to make sense of my childhood, my family, my fears, my emotions, my vast and confusing interior world. I was always a better version of me on the page. I was always at my most honest on the page. I could transcend every limitation I believed I had when I wrote. In high school I may have lived in a small apartment while my friends had big lawns but writing transcended class. Writing transcended loneliness. Writing transcended self-doubt and fear and heartbreak. I never needed a drink or a drug to write. When I took that first pill after Dylan was born, I stopped writing. I told myself it was having children, and financial troubles, and a difficult marriage that made writing impossible. I told myself there wasn\u2019t enough time in the day to write. But all the excuses were lies. Opiates made writing impossible. The drugs I took to avoid pain kept me from the one thing that helped me cope with pain. Writing was my survival strategy and a bridge to other people. It gave me a sense of self-worth. It gave me joy. But mostly it was how I let feelings flow through me. Once I stopped writing, every bit of pain stayed in my body where it settled and weighed me down so much that the only way I could move through life at all was to take a pill as needed for pain. Then two. Then ten. Then twenty. Then sixty. And every time I tried to stop, tried to choose a life without something to dull the pain, I couldn\u2019t stop for very long. I couldn\u2019t stop long enough to realize what I really needed. I needed the writing. I start writing again. I write stories on the computer and print them out because we aren\u2019t allowed to save documents. I write an essay about anger. There\u2019s a woman in Blaine with the last name Doll who suffered horrible childhood abuse and I write a story about the million ways to break a doll. I read the story to Tracy, after relapse prevention class one night, and she sits in silence when I finish. \u201cCan you please read that to me again?\u201d she asks softly. I read her the story again. And then I read her my essay about anger. \u201cThey\u2019re so great,\u201d she says. \u201cI\u2019m blown away. Can I take them to make copies?\u201d Every day that I write, I feel vision pulling me. It\u2019s not a clear vision, but there\u2019s a tug. Writing not only passes the time, it makes me feel like I am me again. The old me. The real me. The me before the mess. Tracy brings back many copies of my anger essay, and it gets passed around Blaine Street. When Jacinda, a thirty-year-old who looks like she\u2019s twelve, comes to me and asks if I can write her letter to the court asking if she can be moved from Blaine to a long-term residential treatment program, I\u2019m not sure if I know enough to argue on her behalf for treatment. We sit on a bench in Blaine\u2019s backyard, and I ask her why she wants to go to an eighteen-month treatment program rather than just do her six months at Blaine. \u201cBecause I don\u2019t want to come back here,\u201d she says. \u201cI don\u2019t want to go to treatment, but I need to go to treatment. Look, it\u2019s eighteen months of structure and regular meals and therapy and support, but I\u2019ll be safe there. You feel me?\u201d Drawing on Eckhart Tolle\u2019s advice, I stay as present as I can while Jacinda speaks. She tells me about her ex who always finds her, and her mom who died two years ago, and her sister who has been raising Jacinda\u2019s son for so long that he thinks she\u2019s his mother. I have to put my own desperation to get out of jail aside\u2014I would never trade six months for eighteen months\u2014and really listen to Jacinda. I try to see the world through her eyes, understand her backstory. It\u2019s not pretty\u2014one horrible foster home after another, running away from abuse, getting raped and kidnapped while high, getting locked up for the first time because she was crashing at a drug house that got raided. \u201cOkay,\u201d I say, after she\u2019s shared her stories for over an hour. \u201cI\u2019ll write your letter.\u201d \u201cWhat do you want?\u201d asks Jacinda. I always forget about the quid pro quo of jail friendship. I\u2019m trying to cut my carbs, so I\u2019m done trading things for bear claws. I fall silent as I ponder what else I could possibly want in this place. \u201cI\u2019ll make your bed every morning,\u201d she says. \u201cPlease\u2026\u201d I suck at making my bed. I can never get the corners as smooth and tight as the guards demand. I nod and smile in agreement. \u201cAnd,\u201d she adds, \u201cif I get released because of your letter, I\u2019ll make sure someone else makes your bed until you get out.\u201d It\u2019s a great incentive, but when I sit down to write the letter to the judge, I\u2019m not thinking about my messy bed. I\u2019m imagining that I am Jacinda and all she\u2019s been through. I\u2019m thinking about how many times I\u2019ve been in and out of jail and how badly I want the structure of the residential program. I write a long letter imploring the judge to send me to treatment, to give me a fighting chance to never come back to jail. As Jacinda I end the letter with this: \u201cI never had anyone care enough about me to tell me when to go to bed, to make sure I was eating healthy, to ask me how my day was. I want to follow the rules. In Santa Cruz Residential, they may not be my family but it will still be the closest thing I\u2019ve ever had to a real home. Please let me go home. It\u2019s all I\u2019ve ever wanted.\u201d Jacinda and I mail the letter, and for the next two weeks she makes my bed every morning before inspection. When the classification officer comes over from the main jail and asks for Jacinda, I go down to the lobby with her. He seems rushed and gives me a slightly annoyed look as I listen in on their conversation. He hands Jacinda a stack of paperwork. \u201cYou get transferred tomorrow to treatment,\u201d he says. \u201cPack it up tonight. They are coming for you at six a.m.\u201d Jacinda bursts into tears. \u201cOkay then,\u201d he says and walks away quickly. Jacinda and I look at each other, stunned. She throws her arms around me. \u201cI\u2019m so happy for you,\u201d I say. \u201cYou deserve this, you deserve a real chance.\u201d \u201cThank you,\u201d she says. \u201cI don\u2019t know how you did it, but what you wrote\u2026 it was just everything I\u2019ve ever felt and didn\u2019t know how to say.\u201d I hug her back tightly. There\u2019s a feeling I don\u2019t recognize that immediately overwhelms me and my eyes well up. I\u2019m so happy for Jacinda but it\u2019s something else. I\u2019m proud of myself. And for the first time in a very long time, I feel good. I don\u2019t see Jacinda the morning she leaves, but at 7 a.m. a quiet girl named Eve taps on my door and then walks in and makes my bed in silence. I try to ask Eve about herself, about what Jacinda traded her for, but she just smiles at me and shrugs. Whatever it is, she\u2019s not saying. She comes every single morning before seven. When she\u2019s not making my bed, Eve crochets all day, only breaking for meals. Her room is lined with hundreds of baby-sized caps and booties. The crochet volunteers collect them every month but where they take them is a mystery. I imagine a hospital or maybe the treatment center for pregnant women. After Jacinda, I have a steady job ghostwriting legal letters, love letters, birthday letters, anniversary poems, arguments in family disputes. I even write eulogies for two women who get passes to leave Blaine for funerals. I break up with a few gangsters, and I tell one poor schmuck I need a divorce because I\u2019ve fallen in love with a woman and now have a jail wife. I prepare for each assignment the same way I did with Jacinda\u2014by listening. Sometimes I worry I could get in trouble for pretending to be other people, especially since that\u2019s what put me in jail in the first place. But I\u2019m helping rather than hustling now, so I don\u2019t worry too much about the fallout. I love pretending to be someone who isn\u2019t me. All my years writing fiction help me to be a different character. When I talk to my clients at Blaine I listen for their particular quirks of language and phrasing, the way they tell a story. There are only a few judges in criminal court in Santa Cruz so I\u2019m extra careful to vary the voice in each letter and match the voice to their individual backgrounds, education, and culture. The more letters I write, the easier it becomes to become another person. To think like they think. Reason like they reason. Occasionally I write how someone feels and they freak out because they didn\u2019t tell me that they grew up never trusting other women, or that because they were abandoned by their father they always chose bad men just like him, but it\u2019s true for them. It\u2019s kind of spooky, and the girls whisper that I must be psychic. I don\u2019t discourage their suspicion because it\u2019s fun, it passes the time, and saves me from having to make my own bed. When I occasionally make a prediction about something entirely predictable that comes true, I gaze intently into people\u2019s eyes as I deny that I\u2019m psychic. And I don\u2019t explain that the reason I can write so accurately about their fears, their shame, their desperation to be loved, to be better mothers than they had, or their struggles to stay clean, is because in all these ways we are exactly the same. I don\u2019t yet realize that what I am doing is honing my empathy\u2014the superpower of all great ghostwriters. \n chapter 13 MOTHER\u2019S DAY I get moved to kitchen duty at Blaine Street, and I get permission to grow a garden in the backyard. Each morning and night I work the soil, plant the seeds, tend to the vegetables that I will eventually cook and serve to my fellow inmates. I have never been a gardener, someone who loved to get her hands in the soil. But it\u2019s different gardening in jail. Planting seeds feels hopeful and even the slow pace of vegetables growing feels exciting because there is something new being tended to and born. Soon after I plant the garden, Amy, Kaden\u2019s CPS social worker, begins making plans to bring him for his first visit. I have called her every day since I got to Blaine. I am determined to do what I can from inside to get my boy back. Every week I ask her what I can do to move my case along. Rather than seeing her as a bureaucrat who wants to take Kaden away from me, I choose to treat her as my ally in getting him back. I choose to believe that the goal of everyone in CPS court is to return Kaden to me rather than take him away permanently. I try to manifest this into being, and I tell myself that the judge, the attorneys, the social workers are all working with me toward this goal. \u201cWhat more can we do?\u201d I ask them. \u201cWhat more can I do?\u201d I ask myself. This question becomes my mantra and consumes every waking hour. I slowly become an advocate for myself and for the other women going through similar CPS cases. One of the requirements to reunify within the allotted year is a positive-discipline parenting class. After I\u2019m released, there will be no way I can complete this class within the one-year time frame. I lobby hard on behalf of all of us at Blaine and get an amazing woman, a former mayor of Santa Cruz, to come to Blaine Street and teach the class. Amy agrees to bring Kaden to a court-supervised visit once a week, but only if all the other girls in Blaine Street agree to stay in their rooms during the visit. It\u2019s the only way CPS will allow the visits to count toward our reunification. All the girls agree to stay locked in their rooms. I don\u2019t know if it\u2019s because of the letters I have written for them, or because so many of them have already lost children to the system, and they empathize with me. These women\u2014mothers, sisters, friends\u2014are rooting for Kaden. He is brought in for his first visit. We read books and play badminton. He sits on my lap, and I cuddle him and promise him I will be home soon, that we will be together. I walk him along the side yard so the girls can see his joy, which their sacrifice has made possible. He smiles and waves to them all and blows them sweet four-year-old kisses. I think it gives them hope. Because my new job in Blaine Street is running the kitchen, I can make him a snack like it\u2019s our own kitchen. I make him hard-boiled eggs, which he loves to peel. I squirrel away boxes of Froot Loops so I can pour him a bowl of sweet cereal when he asks for it every week. I still worry that he hasn\u2019t grown an inch since my arrest, so I feed him as much as I can. We work in the garden and talk about how each plant grows bigger just like him. I will him to grow. Each week he tries to leave something with me, a piece of clothing, a toy, his shoes. \u201cI want to live here with you,\u201d he begs. \u201cPlease, Mommy.\u201d \u201cI love you, Boo Boo,\u201d I tell him. \u201cI wish you could live here, but it\u2019s not allowed, plus your brothers would miss you.\u201d He clings to my neck when it\u2019s time to go, and I murmur \u201csoon\u201d as I rain kisses across his face until he laughs. I do my best not to show him my breaking heart. After he leaves, I grieve the loss all over again. When he cries to stay with me, I tell him Darcy and Bryan love him and are taking care of him for me. I want him to be happy wherever he is\u2014and I do not say a negative word about Darcy, although he repeats cruel things she has said about me. I will never make him feel like his loyalty is divided or feel guilty for his happy moments away from me. I know I am his mom, and there is no ticking clock, or law, or judge, or social worker who can change that. DJ hasn\u2019t yet made it to Rountree\u2014the medium-security facility for men on the other side of the county. He has had no jailhouse epiphany like mine. If anything, jail is making him worse; he\u2019s affiliating with gang members and doing drugs, and the jail stops allowing letters between us because he\u2019s doodling gang symbols in them. When I ask the social worker what happens if both parents aren\u2019t doing what they\u2019re supposed to, she tells me the judge has the power to view each parent\u2019s requirements separately and give custody back to one parent and not the other. \u201cOf course,\u201d she adds, \u201cif you are living with the other parent and he is using drugs or hasn\u2019t fulfilled his requirements, it would appear like you are not putting the well-being of the child first. Sometimes safety means there is only one parent in the picture.\u201d I nod. Pain pushes and vision pulls. I\u2019m done with pain. Officer Lonnie is the main deputy who works the day shift at Blaine Street. I am amazed that everyone calls her by her first name until I realize Lonnie is actually her last name. She is there from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. most days. Lonnie is about my age, with big brown eyes that can stare at you for an uncomfortable amount of time without blinking. She likes to think she doesn\u2019t miss anything that happens at Blaine, but she does. She wears her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun. The guards don\u2019t ever give out personal information, but from what I can gather, she is second generation from somewhere in Southeast Asia. When I get up at 5 a.m. to start cooking for the thirty residents of Blaine she offers me coffee. Real coffee. Guard coffee. She finds the fact that I\u2019ve never tried pho more offensive than my felonies. She tells me how her various relatives make pho, what they each put in it, the five main spices, and how the pho at the diner nearby compares. She also shares the latest Hollywood gossip with me in hopes I will share the latest Blaine Street gossip with her. One day I ask Lonnie if I can make banana bread as a treat for the women of Blaine. I hand her a list of ingredients I will need. As a working mom, I never had time to bake and garden like I do at Blaine. I always thought of baking and gardening as luxuries of the idle or unambitious, but I was wrong. There is something about growing things and feeding people that makes my soul feel good again. I wish I had gardened and baked more when I had a home of my own. \u201cWhat do you have to offer?\u201d asks Lonnie. It\u2019s not as creepy a question as it sounds. Lonnie is trying to move up in the corrections department, and the more contraband she can confiscate from inmates the better it is for her career. Confiscating involves a lot of work for her and a lot of stress for the residents of Blaine, so Lonnie and I have worked out a system: I collect contraband for her so that nobody gets in trouble and in exchange she brings in treats. It\u2019s a win-win, no-fuss-no-muss system for everyone. \u201cWhat do you want?\u201d I counter. \u201cTwo lighters,\u201d she says. Lighters are a coup in the guard confiscation world, since they are needed to smoke cigarettes or drugs, and they can also start fires. I come back with an offer of one lighter, and the deal is done. There are lots of lighters at Blaine, so it\u2019s easy to get a volunteer to give one up for the possibility of banana bread. When I ask for two DVDs and cake mix and frosting, we have a harder negotiation. She wants three lighters and a pack of cigarettes. We settle on two lighters and five cigarettes in exchange for a full movie night experience for Blaine Street where we can stay up until midnight. We are drinking our morning coffee when I finally get up the nerve to ask her about going to the Gemma Program\u2014an eight-week reentry program where about ten Blaine Street residents get to leave in street clothes two days a week and take classes at a local church in relapse prevention, nutritious cooking, music, yoga, r\u00e9sum\u00e9 writing, and life skills like how to balance a checkbook. \u201cI\u2019d like to do it,\u201d I say. \u201cYou don\u2019t really need it,\u201d says Lonnie. \u201cPlease!\u201d I beg. \u201cIt\u2019s not up to me. You have to meet with Cassandra, she\u2019s the program director. She\u2019s coming to do interviews tomorrow for the new session. I just refer people to her that I think can be trusted and who will benefit from it, but it\u2019s her decision.\u201d \u201cWill you refer me?\u201d She says nothing, just smirks at me between sips of her coffee. \u201cWhat?\u201d I ask. \u201cYou don\u2019t think I can be trusted?\u201d I ask this lightly, but my voice shakes a little. It hurts. I want people to trust me again. Lonnie sets her coffee down and laughs. \u201cI already referred you.\u201d Lonnie doesn\u2019t show much emotion, nor is she moved by others\u2019 emotions. But she does have compassion, and I\u2019m grateful to her. Cassandra pulls me out to the lobby to interview me. She\u2019s a large Black woman who exudes joy from her purple-glitter eye shadow to her flower nose ring to her colorful flowing scarves. I\u2019m afraid she\u2019s seen the newspaper headline and read the online comments. I read them constantly, trying to figure out the identity of each username. I know which comment is from Darcy. I know which are from people in recovery. I know which name is an old boss. But the bulk of the comments seem to be from strangers\u2014people who read the article and have a lot to say about who I am and what I\u2019ve done. It\u2019s almost like reading your horoscope every day and trying to see yourself in the description\u2014if your horoscope threatened you and called you a sociopath. Reading them is like poking at a wound that\u2019s trying to heal. They are the opposite of positive affirmations, but I can\u2019t seem to stop. Cassandra and I chat for twenty minutes as she tells me about the program, the classes. She asks me why I want to attend and I don\u2019t bullshit her. \u201cI really want to leave here twice a week,\u201d I say. \u201cI\u2019m not going to lie about that. But I also love school, learning, and homework. I want something to focus on besides cooking and cleaning and waiting for visits from my boys.\u201d \u201cI think you\u2019ll make a great addition to the Gemma Program,\u201d Cassandra tells me. She has the kindest smile I have ever seen, and she beams it at me as if I am worthy of such kindness. \u201cBut\u2026\u201d I stammer, \u201cI just want you to know\u2026\u201d She looks at me expectantly, still smiling. I don\u2019t know how to say what I want to say. I feel inarticulate and like I need to make sure she knows what she\u2019s getting into so that she doesn\u2019t regret offering me a place. \u201cThere was this headline,\u201d I begin. \u201cI have thirty-two felonies, and I just want to make sure you know\u2026 that I\u2019m really, I mean everyone thinks I\u2019m really\u2026\u201d I finally blurt it out. \u201cI\u2019m a bad person!\u201d Cassandra tilts her head and stares me straight in the eye. The kindness and warmth don\u2019t leave her face. What I say doesn\u2019t seem to shock her, but she doesn\u2019t speak for a good thirty seconds. \u201cMy son was in the paper once. I\u2019ll tell you about it someday, but meanwhile I\u2019ll be here at seven a.m. on Tuesday to pick you up,\u201d she finally says. I nod and thank her. As I stand up, she hugs me. Lonnie, watching from the guard station, doesn\u2019t stop her. Lara the mom gets hugged and cuddled by Kaden every week. But Lara, the neighbor from hell, has never been hugged like this. I fold into her and rest my head on her broad shoulder. Her perfume is sweet. I want to stay here forever. She murmurs \u201cIt\u2019s going to be okay\u2026\u201d over and over, and we stay like that for a few minutes. In Cassandra\u2019s arms, I feel like I am good. The Gemma classes are taught by local volunteers, and the church gives access to the meeting room and the kitchen for free. A few weeks into the session I find out some girls have been stealing money from the collection box at the church. I put a stop to it right away, making them return what they stole and confess to Cassandra. When they protest, I remind them that I control the Blaine Street kitchen, which also means I control the cheese. In relapse prevention someone said that there\u2019s a chemical in cheese that\u2019s identical to one in heroin. I don\u2019t know if that\u2019s true, but I do know that in Blaine whoever controls the cheese controls the women. Halfway through the program, Alice, a volunteer, gives us homework where we have to list all the pros and cons of restorative justice versus punitive justice. Back at Blaine, we all gather in the computer room and talk about what it would be like to sit in a circle with the people we have harmed and hear their experience of our crimes. Some girls say they\u2019d prefer a judge to facing their victims, and I think about sitting with my neighbors and trying to explain why I stole their checkbook and wrote a check at the grocery store. Or why I used their social security number to get credit to buy a Kindle. I don\u2019t know if I could explain it in a way that wouldn\u2019t sound like I wasn\u2019t taking responsibility. \u201cI was out of my mind\u201d doesn\u2019t cut it. \u201cI just wanted to read parenting e-books\u201d makes me sound inane. I didn\u2019t want to hurt them. But my life for the last year was like driving at night in heavy fog; I could only focus on a foot in front of me. I had no peripheral vision for anyone or anything else. I definitely couldn\u2019t see my neighbors. I can\u2019t imagine one person who was in the courtroom when I was sentenced choosing forgiveness over punishment. I don\u2019t think I could make that choice if someone hurt my family, violated my sense of safety and security. Restorative justice was great in theory but we Gemma girls couldn\u2019t imagine forgiving ourselves, much less asking others to forgive us. I am the fastest typist in Blaine, so I help all the girls type up their homework and print it for class. At the next class, Alice and I are sitting across from each other, at two ends of a large conference table. The rest of the girls are on either side. \u201cDid anyone have any problems with typing it up?\u201d she asks. \u201cIt\u2019s okay if you had to handwrite it.\u201d \u201cI helped everyone type it on the computer,\u201d I say brightly. The weeks are flying by now, and I\u2019m in great spirits. Tracy, the relapse prevention teacher, had challenged me to stop reading the newspaper comments about me so I have, and it\u2019s lifted my mood considerably. I smile at Alice, but she doesn\u2019t smile back. She says sharply, \u201cI\u2019m not comfortable with you being on any kind of computer at all.\u201d My stomach flips, and I study Alice more closely to see if I know her from anywhere outside Gemma, Little League or Montessori maybe, but she just glares at me with open disdain. Nobody says anything. One of the rules of Gemma is that you never talk about anyone\u2019s crimes. The volunteers are there to help and support us because they believe in reentry and rehabilitation. Like our homework assignment, Gemma itself is based on restorative justice, not punitive. I can\u2019t respond, and my cheeks burn. I keep my eyes on the table for the rest of the class. When the day is over, and we are putting chairs away in the supply closet, I step inside and start to cry. I feel defeated. Ashamed. I silently berate myself for my optimism. If a Gemma volunteer has such vitriol toward me, then I have no chance out in the world. Cassandra pushes her way into the closet. She\u2019s livid. \u201cShe had no right to say that to you,\u201d she says angrily. \u201cI\u2019m going to talk to her.\u201d \u201cI can\u2019t come back,\u201d I say. \u201cWhat\u2019s the point? I\u2019m done.\u201d I have no anger in me like Cassandra does, but then anger has always come out as sadness for me. \u201cYou will be back. You\u2019ll be back on Thursday, and you\u2019ll be back every week after until you graduate. I promise you, nothing like that will happen again.\u201d I shrug and tell Cassandra I\u2019ll think about it. When I walk into Blaine, Lonnie takes one look at me and says, \u201cWho died?\u201d I tell her what happened. \u201cSo your feelings got hurt,\u201d she says. \u201cDo you like Gemma?\u201d \u201cYeah\u2026 but\u2026\u201d \u201cThen get over it. Show up and hold your head up.\u201d \u201cBut\u2026\u201d \u201cOr no more getting out of double-scrub by having your minions do your job.\u201d This makes me laugh. Lonnie always knows more than I give her credit for. \u201cHow about some ice cream for the girls? Ice cream always cheers me up. I like vanilla.\u201d \u201cFigures you like vanilla. No deal. You don\u2019t get rewarded for pouting, so suck it up, Love. And finish what you started.\u201d Lonnie\u2019s right. I want to finish Gemma, so I will. Later that night Lonnie calls me to her window and hands me the office phone. It\u2019s Cassandra. \u201cI spoke to her. Apparently she\u2019s friends with your next-door neighbor.\u201d \u201cOh, great\u2026\u201d \u201cIt won\u2019t happen again,\u201d says Cassandra. \u201cNot on my watch. And you don\u2019t have to do her class anymore. And she won\u2019t be coming back next session.\u201d \u201cThanks,\u201d I say. \u201cI guess I\u2019ll see you Thursday.\u201d \u201cYou bet your ass you will.\u201d On Mother\u2019s Day, Bryan brings Dylan, Cody, and Ty to visit. It\u2019s always awkward to see Bryan, and even more awkward when he keeps telling me how good I look. \u201cI mean, you look so healthy,\u201d he adds. It\u2019s true. I exercise every day, I meditate, I go to bed early, I have lots of friends. But mostly I feel hopeful. At first it felt like I would be in jail forever, but now I see an advertisement for a movie coming out in October and I think, I will be out of jail when that movie premieres. The boys and I sit in Blaine\u2019s backyard and talk. I tell them stories about the other girls, silly fights people get in, how we trade lighters for cake mix, and I give them the beanies I have crocheted for them. \u201cI got into Cal Poly,\u201d says Dylan. I scream and hug him. My firstborn is headed for college. \u201cI\u2019m so proud of you,\u201d I say. \u201cWhen does school start?\u201d \u201cThe end of September.\u201d I will be out, I think. I will be out of jail to see him off to college. Cody talks about basketball and his new girlfriend. Ty talks about his friends in junior high and the academic awards he\u2019s winning even though he skips classes whenever he can. \u201cI believe in cutting out the middleman,\u201d he says. I look at him, puzzled. \u201cThe teacher.\u201d He laughs. \u201cI don\u2019t need the teacher to learn or to do well on the tests.\u201d The old me would have freaked out on him, told him he can\u2019t skip school and that teachers are important. The new me just listens and understands. Because it\u2019s Mother\u2019s Day there\u2019s no time limit on the visits, and the boys and Bryan stay all day. We play badminton and check out the garden, but mostly we just sit and talk and laugh. \u201cI\u2019ve been writing,\u201d I say. \u201cI\u2019ve missed it so much. I don\u2019t know why I stopped writing.\u201d \u201cDon\u2019t stop, Mom,\u201d they say. \u201cYou should do what you love.\u201d Sitting in the shade under a tree outside the jail with my boys should feel weird and painful and awkward. But there\u2019s so much love between us under that tree that I realize I didn\u2019t need all those trappings to prove I was a loving mom. I didn\u2019t need a big house and a big car and private school and fancy vacations. None of that mattered or matters. I realize in this moment that I am a better mom in jail than I have ever been outside jail. Our conversations feel more real, more raw, more honest. We\u2019re not fitting into any preconceived roles\u2014we can\u2019t. I used to think the most important thing was that my boys get into Stanford, or some big Ivy League college like Harvard, but now I realize it\u2019s not that important. Dylan is happy to be going to Cal Poly, so I\u2019m happy. If he\u2019d told me he decided not to go to college, I would have still been happy. Bryan and I aren\u2019t fighting, and every time one of the boys says something funny our eyes meet in shared understanding: We did this. As flawed and fucked-up as we were, we created these beautiful humans. The Love boys have always had each other, but now, thanks to my arrest, they have their mom back. I\u2019m not keeping secrets. I\u2019m not pretending. I\u2019m just here in my green and purple loving on them. I never thought I would be overwhelmed with gratitude spending Mother\u2019s Day in jail, but I am. Thank you. I am alive. Thank you. I am their mother. Thank you, thank you, thank you. A few weeks later, we have a Gemma graduation at a hotel near the courthouse. We are given graduation gowns. We are each expected to give a speech. Friends and family, judges and attorneys and city officials, and even some guards attend the ceremony. I invite my sons, but only Dylan and Cody can make it. For many of the girls, this will be the only graduation they\u2019ll ever have. I have graduated high school and college and graduate school, but I feel most proud of this commencement. It feels like a celebration. When we come out to begin the ceremony, we all dance out one by one to \u201cSuperwoman\u201d by Alicia Keys. It should have been embarrassing for all of us, in our maroon caps and gowns, swaying and dancing and celebrating because we graduated from a basic life skills program. The audience of judges and guards is slightly uncomfortable, and my boys are mortified, but our dancing is an act of rebellion. Who are we to celebrate? Who are we to laugh and smile? Who are we to wear our caps and gowns proudly and share our speeches with confidence? Who are we to identify as Superwomen? We are women full of possibility and hope. In my speech, I talk about the experience of time in jail. I talk about how I used to treat time as a limitless resource, and not the precious and rare commodity it actually is. I try to convey how often the past is present when you have only your own mind for company, and how the future is unknown. I talk about the obstacles we all will face when we are released. I talk about pain pushing and vision pulling. I talk about missing Dylan\u2019s high school graduation the week earlier but how he is here to see me graduate, and I ask the audience to cheer for him. And then I promise my boys, the guards, the judge on my case who is watching, that I will never miss another graduation of any of my children. My old boyfriend, the district attorney, is at the graduation. Cassandra is flabbergasted because he has never attended one of these ceremonies before. I see him watching me dance, staring at me intently while I give my speech. He gets up to leave when the reception is about to begin, and I track his movements to the door. He turns around at the doorway and our eyes meet. He smiles. I smile. In this small moment we are friends again. We are on the same side. It\u2019s a long summer without Gemma to break up the monotony, but I work in the garden, and Lonnie lets me do landscaping in the evenings in front of Blaine Street. I am always working during shift change at 7 p.m., so the main jail guards all see me out front with no locked doors between me and the outside world. Some have started to wave to me every evening, others just frown and look concerned. I love these evenings of freedom\u2014pruning rosebushes, pulling weeds. Plants never judge you. Some nights, I almost think I can hear the summer sounds of people laughing at the nearby beach. I think of all the times I took my boys there\u2014riding the baby rides on the boardwalk until they were big enough to go on the Giant Dipper roller coaster. Kaden would still be on the baby rides, and I imagine us eating cotton candy and playing carnival games together. On nights when the summer fog rolls in, it makes me moody and nostalgic for everything I have lost. I don\u2019t want to cook dinner for thirty women; I want to cook dinner for my family. I don\u2019t want to mop jail floors; I want to mop a floor in my own house. I don\u2019t want to prune the jail\u2019s rosebushes; I want to plant my own garden in my own backyard. Each night I go to sleep thinking I am one day closer to all these things. And each morning I wake up not knowing how the hell I\u2019m going to make any of that happen. At the end of June Michael Jackson dies. Lonnie and I discuss his demise over coffee. It\u2019s got to be opiates, I tell her. I\u2019m pretty sure he was an opiate addict. Lonnie disagrees, and we fall into a heated debate. In July, reports emerge about his history of abusing pain medication. Even though she runs a jail filled with women who suffer from substance abuse disorders, Lonnie still doesn\u2019t understand how someone who has everything can throw it all away. Such behavior doesn\u2019t fit her no-nonsense, deal-with-it mentality, so I try to explain how the drugs just take over. How they make nothing else matter. \u201cBut you know what you\u2019re doing,\u201d she says. \u201cYou still know right from wrong.\u201d \u201cOf course,\u201d I say. \u201cThen if you know you are doing the wrong things,\u201d she says, giving me a pointed look, \u201cthen you should know enough to stop.\u201d \u201cIt just doesn\u2019t work that way,\u201d I say. \u201cWell then you ask for help\u2026\u201d I think about all the times I could have asked for help and didn\u2019t. In my mind, there was no way I could ever be away from my children for the thirty days it took to go to rehab. It feels ironic now that I\u2019ve been away from them for nine months. \u201cThere\u2019s so much stigma and shame,\u201d I say. \u201cFor me, it would have meant admitting that I didn\u2019t have my shit together. I was afraid of being judged. Seems like a small price to pay now. I was super invested in pretending like everything was fine, and I was the perfect mom. Perfect moms don\u2019t go to rehab.\u201d \u201cSo how\u2019d that work out for you?\u201d Lonnie asks. \u201cAnd you still knew right from wrong when you were out there committing all those felonies.\u201d I think about it for a minute. \u201cIt wasn\u2019t that I forgot right from wrong,\u201d I say. \u201cDrugs don\u2019t do that, at least not for me. But they did make me forget who I was, if that makes sense. I didn\u2019t forget the law, I forgot myself.\u201d \u201cWhat does that mean?\u201d \u201cIt means I forgot that I\u2019m someone who would give you everything I have before I\u2019d ever steal from you. It means I forgot that I\u2019m someone who\u2019s happy and fun and likes people. I forgot that I\u2019m creative and loving and careful and thoughtful and generous.\u201d \u201cYou didn\u2019t seem to forget that you\u2019re full of yourself.\u201d Lonnie laughs. \u201cBut I did,\u201d I say. \u201cI completely forgot to be full of myself. But mostly I forgot I\u2019m someone who wants to live.\u201d Lonnie clears her throat. \u201cAre you going to cry?\u201d I ask. Lonnie scoffs. \u201cYou wish.\u201d In August, the jail announces plans for an early-release program to help with overcrowding. They are going to release some inmates ahead of their official out date, but you have to come back to the jail every day from eight to four and work. There\u2019s lots of excitement about this program, but it only reminds me yet again how much the county depends on women\u2019s unpaid labor. Soon after this plan is floated, Lonnie calls me over the loudspeaker on a Friday before shift change. \u201cWhat\u2019s up?\u201d I say. \u201cI was just looking up your husband\u2019s record on the computer. He was caught with street clothes under his mattress.\u201d \u201cWhat?\u201d DJ and I haven\u2019t been able to write each other in months, and since we\u2019re done with court dates, I never see him. Or think about him. I declared my love for him in my letters, but I didn\u2019t really feel anything for him anymore. I didn\u2019t hate him; I didn\u2019t love him. And I didn\u2019t know what to do about it. Lonnie reads through the reports on DJ. \u201cWow, he\u2019s had a lot of trouble in jail. I shouldn\u2019t be sharing this with you, but I want you to know\u2014you guys seem like you\u2019re on different trajectories.\u201d I don\u2019t know what to say to this, so I just shrug. I don\u2019t know if this is Lonnie my friend advising me about my future, or Lonnie my jailer scouting for information. \u201cYou should get rid of this guy, that\u2019s all I\u2019m saying.\u201d \u201cWell, it\u2019s not like we\u2019re dating right now.\u201d I laugh, but Lonnie is stone-faced. \u201cYou qualify for early release with the new program. You are out on Monday morning.\u201d I am surprised. I thought I had another three weeks. I have no idea where I\u2019m going to live or how I\u2019m going to get to the jail to work each day. The jail doesn\u2019t care about these challenges, and for now neither do I. With freedom so close, it\u2019s hard to think about how hard homelessness will be. \u201cI\u2019m not working this weekend, so this is goodbye,\u201d she says. Lonnie and I look at each other. I can\u2019t tell her that I\u2019ll miss her because that\u2019s just awkward given our circumstances. But I appreciate her, and I will miss her friendship. \u201cI don\u2019t want to see you again,\u201d she says. \u201cI promise I will never be back here. I will never go to jail again. No offense.\u201d \u201cDo you know how many times I\u2019ve been told that, and then two months later I see the person right back here again?\u201d \u201cA million times?\u201d \u201cProbably more. I think you might have a chance\u2014but you need to get rid of the guy. Everyone here thinks so. And if you come back, I will not let you have your own room. I will bunk you up with the most obnoxious person in here.\u201d \u201cDeal,\u201d I reply. \u201cBut what do you mean by \u2018everyone\u2019 thinks so?\u201d Lonnie laughs. \u201cYou don\u2019t think the guards talk as much about you guys as you do about us?\u201d When shift change happens, I am outside tending to the roses. Lonnie drives past and yells out her window, \u201cTry some pho!\u201d I give her a little wave and go back to deadheading the rosebushes so that the tender new buds have room to grow. I don\u2019t tell anyone I\u2019m leaving on Monday. The few days before someone\u2019s out date are always precarious. Sometimes girls sabotage themselves and get into trouble that requires them to stay, and other times another inmate sabotages them. Like any place where thirty women are living on top of each other, each dealing with their own trauma, their own sobriety, their own regret\u2014it can be all kumbaya and girl power until it isn\u2019t. I have nightmares all weekend before my release\u2014where I\u2019m running because I\u2019m being chased, or I\u2019m trying to save my children and I can\u2019t. I know that I\u2019m walking out of Blaine a different person than I was when I walked in\u2014but I don\u2019t know exactly who I am now. I have been so many different versions of myself that I don\u2019t know which is real. All of them? None of them? On Sunday night, right before lights out, I tell everyone I am leaving in the morning, and we have a spontaneous dance party in our quad. Janelle and Mandi help me fold the blanket I have made in crochet class over the last few months. I want to give it to Dylan to take to Cal Poly when he leaves in September. I\u2019ve missed almost his whole senior year of high school. His football games and SATs and prom and graduation. I have missed my oldest son\u2019s most important year of school, and the guilt is all-consuming. In my fantasy life I imagine being back in a home with all my boys, but I realize that because Dylan is going off to college he will probably never live with me again. This realization that some things are just lost to me forever is like jumping into icy waters. It takes my breath away. I shake off the cold reality and focus on my last night with my Blaine Street family. The blanket that I have been blindly crocheting during my months at Blaine has grown to be at least twenty feet long and ten feet wide, and the folding party devolves into dark hilarity. \u201cAt least you\u2019ll have something to keep you warm when you\u2019re homeless.\u201d \u201cYou could cut it up and have an entire crocheted wardrobe.\u201d \u201cYou can hide under it when Probation comes knocking.\u201d At one point, all thirty of us try to fit under the blanket like it\u2019s a fort. It\u2019s all fun and games until Janelle pees her pants from laughing so hard. I go to bed that night smiling, hopeful, sure that the hard part is out of the way. I have done my time. On August 17, 2009, I walk out of Blaine Street forever. When I leave Blaine, I must go immediately to the probation department to let them know my address and get the terms of my release. I have no address, only a prepaid room in a seedy motel called the Hitching Post not far from the jail, where I will spend the next few weeks. An uncle I haven\u2019t seen or heard from in years has offered to pay for this, my mom tells me. I am grateful, but also hurt that no relative of mine ever wrote or visited me in jail. I know that part of my sentence is attending drug court once I\u2019m released, but I don\u2019t know when or how this starts. Drug court is usually an alternative to jail that involves night classes twice a week, random drug testing, immediate incarceration for a weekend if there\u2019s a failed drug test, and the promise of a clean record upon completion of the program. Drug testing is also part of probation, and part of the CPS reunification requirements. Every day I must call three different numbers and see if any of them requires me to get a drug test. I will have three hours to get the test from the time I am alerted. Meeting all the CPS requirements is a condition of my criminal case plea deal; meeting my drug court requirements is a condition of the CPS case; and doing whatever Probation wants trumps all. The various parts of the system are precariously stacked like a Jenga tower. Make one wrong move and it all comes toppling down. I will walk out of Blaine with no car, no phone, no friends, and no idea how to navigate the confusing and conflicting requirements of three different parts of the same system. It feels like a setup because failure at anything means I\u2019m back in jail on a probation violation. The early-release program also means I report to the jail every morning at eight to do yardwork and landscaping. When I leave Blaine, my mom is waiting outside and takes me to breakfast. She has made the hour-and-a-half drive from her home in San Francisco, and I hope that she will stay longer, but after breakfast she drops me off at the probation department and leaves. I give the woman at the front desk my name, and she looks at me blankly. \u201cI just got out of jail,\u201d I say. \u201cThey told me to come here and report in or get oriented or something. I have to do it within seventy-two hours, but I\u2019m here today.\u201d The woman has me wait in the lobby for over two hours and then finally the probation officer on duty comes out. \u201cYou\u2019re here too soon,\u201d he says. \u201cWe don\u2019t have any paperwork from the jail yet. Come back in a few days.\u201d \u201cBut I\u2019m on the new work-release program and I have to be at the jail working from eight to four starting tomorrow. You guys aren\u2019t open before eight or after four.\u201d \u201cWhat\u2019s your name again?\u201d I tell him and then he has me follow him back to his desk. He gets on his computer. \u201cYou just got out?\u201d \u201cA few hours ago,\u201d I say. \u201cYeah, we\u2019ve already had a call about a probation violation. You need to appear in criminal court, Department Three, at eight tomorrow morning. And drug court is at three on Fridays.\u201d \u201cWhat did I do? What probation violation?\u201d I am shocked. \u201cI\u2019m not your probation officer, you\u2019ll get assigned one once we get your paperwork. But you need to be in court tomorrow morning.\u201d \u201cI have to be working at the jail at eight,\u201d I say. \u201cI just got out. I haven\u2019t done anything wrong.\u201d He just shrugs. \u201cHow,\u201d I ask him, \u201cam I supposed to be in both places at once? What do I do? And drug court is at three but I\u2019m supposed to do work release until four.\u201d \u201cNot our problem,\u201d he says. \u201cBut if you don\u2019t show up in court that\u2019s another probation violation.\u201d I walk outside and sit on the front steps of the building. My body starts to shake, and I\u2019m hyperventilating. The busy street in front of me narrows in my vision like I\u2019m looking at it through a telescope. I watch the people passing by in their cars\u2014running errands, going to work, getting lunch, driving their kids to and from activities. I bury my face in my hands and cry. I imagine throwing myself into the street, not to die, just to get injured, so a hospital will take me in, and nurses will take care of me. I think about all the girls in the main jail who were released one day and then booked back in the next day for stealing, or fighting, or trespassing, or public drunkenness. One mother and daughter who were in G and then Blaine at the same time used to joke that it was the best home they ever had together. Only they weren\u2019t joking. I always questioned how they could be so stupid to land back in jail so soon, and now I know. Alone on the outside makes together on the inside feel safer. I sit there for an hour, and then I wipe my eyes and make a plan. First, back to the jail to tell them I have to be in court in the morning, then I will walk to my public defender\u2019s office. I don\u2019t know if she\u2019s done with her maternity leave or even still my attorney now that I\u2019m out, but she\u2019s the only one who might take my side and tell me what I should do. DJ won\u2019t be released for a few weeks at least, and I know that if I can survive until then, my mother-in-law will help us find somewhere to live. Maybe lend us a car. I just have to take the first step. And then another. And then another. My attorney isn\u2019t in, but the receptionist tells me that Elizabeth will meet me at court in the morning and to get there fifteen minutes early so we can talk. \u201cDo you know what it\u2019s about?\u201d I ask. \u201cDo you know who called?\u201d \u201cI have no idea, sorry.\u201d That night I triple-lock myself into my room at the Hitching Post. Every surface is both greasy and dusty. No double-scrub here, I think. I only have the forty dollars that my mom put on my books so the jail would give me some cash when I was released, and I don\u2019t know how long that has to last. I don\u2019t have clothes for court. I don\u2019t know what I could already be in trouble for. How can I violate probation before I\u2019m even signed up for it? I consciously try to stay awake because I don\u2019t want to have nightmares in this strange place. Twenty-four hours ago, I was laughing and hopeful. Now I feel like prey. \n chapter 14 ALL BUSES LEAD TO THE SAME PLACE Elizabeth meets me at 8 a.m. in front of the courthouse. She is noticeably not pregnant, but we don\u2019t have time to chat about newborns, sleep schedules, breastfeeding, or any of the other experiences I would normally discuss with a new mother. \u201cSomeone called Probation a half hour after you were released,\u201d she says, \u201cand said you violated CPS terms.\u201d \u201cWhat did I do?\u201d I ask in panic. \u201cI was at the jail, went to breakfast, then Probation, then back to the jail, then went to your office.\u201d \u201cThe caller said you were seen driving by Kaden\u2019s daycare. The caller knew that following CPS requirements is a part of your probation.\u201d \u201cI don\u2019t even have a car.\u201d Obviously, the person didn\u2019t know that. \u201cI haven\u2019t even talked to anyone. I don\u2019t have a phone or a car or a way to reach my boys to tell them I\u2019m out. I wouldn\u2019t do that.\u201d I\u2019m begging her, but I\u2019m not sure what I\u2019m begging her for. To believe me? To fight for me? My voice sounds high-pitched and shaky in my own ears. If I didn\u2019t know me better, I would think I was lying. \u201cWho would make up something like that? Why would someone do that?\u201d Elizabeth pats my shoulder. \u201cLook, anyone can make up anything and tell it to Probation. It happens all the time. People want revenge, or they just want to cause trouble for people when they get out of jail. They file false CPS reports. They file false probation violation reports. They make accusations.\u201d My mind jumps through all the possibilities. I don\u2019t want to think Darcy would stoop so low, but while I\u2019ll never know, she\u2019s my most likely candidate. I want to scream. I want to cry. I don\u2019t want to go back to jail. \u201cI would be on camera outside the jail,\u201d I say frantically. \u201cDo they have cameras at Probation? I can prove I didn\u2019t go anywhere else but the main jail, breakfast, Probation, back to the main jail, and then to your office. I was in the lobby at the jail. I talked to the deputy on duty at the window. I can prove it! There will be a receipt from breakfast!\u201d I\u2019m angry, but my anger comes out as tears. \u201cIt\u2019s okay,\u201d she says. \u201cI\u2019m going to go talk to the judge. I know you didn\u2019t drive by daycare. Sit in the courtroom and wait for me to call you up.\u201d I follow her inside and sit near the door. A part of me wants to run. I\u2019m going to be one of those girls who go back to jail the next day. The judge walks in, and I meet his eye. It\u2019s Judge Marigonda, the same judge who sentenced me. Elizabeth, the assistant district attorney, and the probation officer all approach the bench. I can\u2019t hear what they are saying, but at times they all glance in my direction. I eye the bailiff nervously. I\u2019ve done nothing wrong, but I feel guilty and stare with mounting dread at the handcuffs on his belt. After about fifteen minutes, the ADA and probation officer go back to their table, and Elizabeth waves me up. \u201cMs. Love,\u201d the judge acknowledges me. My mouth is too dry to speak so I just nod. \u201cMs. Love, we understand you have been released early for good behavior and as part of the work-release program.\u201d \u201cYes, Your Honor.\u201d My voice is small and weak. \u201cMs. Love, we have decided to modify your sentence.\u201d I look over at my attorney desperately and take a big inhale to speak, but she shakes her head at me and smiles at the judge. \u201cWe are going to take you out of drug court and send you to Family Preservation Court. You have probation requirements and requirements from the CPS court and will also have requirements from Family Preservation Court. I want to see you in my courtroom the morning after every appearance you have in Family Preservation Court. Commissioner Siegel oversees that court, so I will be getting updates from him directly on your progress. If you mess up, you will be remanded. Is that clear?\u201d I nod. \u201cI need a verbal answer, Ms. Love.\u201d \u201cYes, Your Honor.\u201d \u201cI saw you walking to Probation yesterday as I was driving to the courthouse,\u201d the judge adds. I nod again. \u201cI saw with my own eyes that you didn\u2019t have a car, nor were you driving by a daycare at the same time I was driving by you. You have a big uphill battle in front of you, Ms. Love, but I trust you are up to the task. I was also happy to see you at the Gemma graduation. We\u2019re going to be seeing a lot of each other now.\u201d I swallow nervously. \u201cThank you, Your Honor,\u201d my attorney says. I mumble \u201cThank you\u201d and turn toward the door. \u201cWait for me outside,\u201d Elizabeth whispers. In the hallway I blink at the bright lights, not sure what has just transpired. When Elizabeth emerges from the courtroom, she pulls me to a quiet area in the hall where her husband, Jonathan, joins us. I haven\u2019t seen him since my sentencing. \u201cThey know the call was a fake,\u201d says Jonathan. \u201cSo you don\u2019t have to worry.\u201d \u201cBut what about the next call?\u201d I ask. \u201cCan anyone just call Probation and lie about me?\u201d My freedom, so newly won, feels fragile. What a fool I was to believe that I only had to do the right thing and it would all be okay. Elizabeth and Jonathan have no answer for me. \u201cWhat is Family Preservation Court?\u201d I ask. \u201cAnd why did I get moved there?\u201d \u201cLook, your husband is going to be out in a few weeks,\u201d says Elizabeth. \u201cThe court and Probation want to separate you from him. He will be in drug court, and you will go to Family Preservation Court, which includes outpatient treatment at night, testing, and court appearances on your progress, with the CPS attorneys and social workers in attendance. It\u2019s a good thing. It\u2019s a reward. It will help you get your son back sooner.\u201d \u201cBut what about getting my record cleared and getting off probation when I finish and all the other benefits of drug court?\u201d I ask. \u201cWill I lose those?\u201d \u201cNo, you\u2019re not being punished. They want you to succeed. And they think you\u2019ll have a better chance of succeeding if you\u2019re in a different program from your husband. Although I\u2019ve never heard of a criminal court wanting you to appear every time you have Family Preservation Court. Marigonda really wants to be able to lock you up if you relapse, like they do in drug court.\u201d \u201cWill you be there in criminal court with me?\u201d I don\u2019t understand how probation works or if public defenders are still your defenders after you get out of jail. \u201cOne of us will be there. We represent you.\u201d \u201cBut how do you get paid?\u201d \u201cWe are private attorneys, but we contract with the county public defenders\u2019 office. You and your husband couldn\u2019t have attorneys from the same place. It\u2019s a conflict.\u201d I nod. I don\u2019t know why I didn\u2019t know this ten months ago, but it makes sense. \u201cYou can\u2019t relapse,\u201d says Elizabeth. \u201cDrug court only locks you up for the weekend. I have no idea what this judge will do. He could put you away for much longer as a probation violation. You don\u2019t have the wiggle room of drug court.\u201d I\u2019m not worried about relapsing\u2014I know my rock bottom has been bad enough. I won\u2019t mess up. I take a deep breath. \u201cDoes DJ know I am out?\u201d \u201cHe\u2019s not our problem,\u201d says Elizabeth. \u201cI know, but\u2026\u201d \u201cHe shouldn\u2019t be yours either.\u201d Elizabeth says this softly, and Jonathan nods. \u201cWell, does the jail know I\u2019m here or am I in trouble with them already?\u201d \u201cYou can leave work release if you have court, or if Probation calls you in, or if you have to drug test. Just tell them in the lobby the day before or if you get called in to test, just let them know who\u2019s requiring it that day so they can confirm. You can explain why you\u2019re late today, and if they\u2019re worried about it, they will confirm with Probation.\u201d It seems complicated and inefficient, but I nod. \u201cWe have to go. Call the office if you have any questions.\u201d \u201cThanks,\u201d I say. I don\u2019t add that I don\u2019t have a cell phone because I am tired of my own voice bringing up problems. I am more fucked than I thought. On Thursday I go to Family Preservation Court as a requirement of probation. There, I learn that one requirement of Family Preservation Court is attending Sobriety Works\u2014an outpatient three-night-a-week-for-three-hours program at the other end of the county. Every Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday night for a year I will go to group treatment, be drug tested by yet another entity, attend outside twelve-step meetings, and meet with a private counselor. CPS also requires me to meet with a different private therapist. Probation doesn\u2019t care about therapy, but they do require me to get a job and go to a different set of meetings. I have no idea how I\u2019ll manage all my new responsibilities: going to three different courtrooms, pee testing for multiple agencies at different sites, seeing two therapists, going to twelve-step meetings, working at the jail, and supervised visits with Kaden. I write lists of each agency\u2019s requirements, cross-reference them against each other, and tape them to the wall of my motel room like a murder board. Every Thursday morning I go to Family Preservation Court, where the judge and the CPS social workers and Sobriety Works treatment counselors will discuss how I did that week, check that I\u2019ve been going to recovery meetings, and log it all into the system that will feed into CPS court and criminal court. On Friday mornings I go to criminal court and stand in front of Judge Marigonda, so he can read the report from the Family Preservation Court judge and tell me whether I have fucked up and am going back to jail. Both judges then send reports to the CPS court judge. So many judges, so little time. I\u2019ve never been great at peeing on demand, so all this random drug testing requires me to hydrate excessively each day. It\u2019s a pain, but on the plus side, my skin looks fabulous. It\u2019s stressful not having a car and never knowing when you are going to be required to trek across the county to a drug test. It\u2019s a full-time job meeting all the requirements\u2014complicated by the fact that one of the requirements is getting a full-time job. The first time I have to take the bus across town for Sobriety Works, I give myself two hours to travel the eight or so miles. I haven\u2019t been to Aptos since I was arrested, and I live in fear of running into one of my former neighbors. I know they would never take the bus, but still I\u2019m afraid someone will recognize me. In my mind, everyone who looks at me for more than half a second knows that I am the neighbor from hell. There\u2019s a fine line between shame and narcissism. At the bus stop, I try to make sense of the schedule, the bus numbers, and the routes, but it might as well be hieroglyphics. It\u2019s raining, and I jump on the first bus heading south. After more than an hour, it pulls into a large mall halfway to Aptos. Everyone gets off but me. \u201cLast stop,\u201d says the bus driver. \u201cBut I\u2019m trying to get to Aptos. The seventy-one is supposed to go to Aptos.\u201d I say this with more conviction than I feel, because I\u2019m not even sure I\u2019m on the 71. \u201cThis isn\u2019t the bus to Aptos.\u201d \u201cWhen is the next bus to Aptos?\u201d \u201cLook at the schedule, but probably not for another thirty minutes. Maybe more.\u201d \u201cCan\u2019t you take me to Aptos?\u201d \u201cI\u2019m not a taxi, this is a public bus.\u201d He shakes his head. \u201cBut I didn\u2019t know I had to get off here\u2026\u201d I don\u2019t know why I am telling him this. He has nothing to do with the obstacle course I have to run every day. \u201cAll buses go to the same place,\u201d he says. I don\u2019t know what to say to this. For some reason, it strikes me as profound. Like a black-and-white photo, or anything said in a British accent. But it also drains me of hope. This moment breaks me. The darkness outside, the fact that I will be late to my first night at Sobriety Works, and all the horrible consequences I imagine has me ugly crying in the back of a bus. I don\u2019t have a car, a job, a friend, a partner, an ally. I don\u2019t have anyone to help me get where I need to go in this new life of mine. Even when I get Kaden back, I won\u2019t have a home to fit the rest of my boys. All I\u2019ve focused on is getting out and getting Kaden back. That is how I\u2019ve triaged my life. But always in the back of my mind this painful truth has lurked. Never again can I wake them up in the morning for school, nag them to do their homework, curl up on a couch and watch a movie with them. I can\u2019t pick them up from school, drive them to their basketball games, or sit in their room at night and talk about their day. I have lost my three older boys in those ways forever. And I miss them so much I can\u2019t breathe. I miss being their mom. I hate myself for what I have done to them. Kaden may be young enough to forget, but my older boys never will. I am their torment, the source of their shame. I will be their college essay topic and the star of their therapy sessions for years to come. And now I am lost on a bus at an empty mall on a Monday night, grieving for the life I took for granted, grieving for my children, grieving for all the mundane moments that now feel like lost treasure. The driver interrupts my tearful reverie. \u201cThis is the end of the line. You have to get off.\u201d His face in the rearview mirror looks worried and maybe slightly afraid. He looks over his shoulder at me. \u201cSeriously, you need to get off.\u201d I wipe my eyes as I walk toward the front of the bus. \u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d he mumbles as I pass him. \u201cNo, I\u2019m sorry,\u201d I say, and I rush down the stairs into the rainy night. The only good thing about working outside the main jail all day is that it\u2019s exhausting. I doze off early at the Hitching Post and sleep dreamlessly. I\u2019m also happy that there are cameras outside the jail. I make sure to walk directly in front of them every two hours and go inside to ask the officer on duty a random question about the weed whacker or the pruning shears or whether there are more gloves handy. I need to make sure nobody can say I am somewhere I\u2019m not. The fear of someone calling Probation again has turned me chatty. Every night before I go to sleep, I write down who I talked to and at what times and what I did all day. The days turn into weeks, and I discover that I love blowing autumn leaves with the leaf blower. It\u2019s the only thing that makes me feel powerful. I have the leaf blower backpack on during my last day of work release when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn around and it\u2019s DJ. His head is completely shaved. I drop the backpack and give him a big hug. \u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d \u201cThey let me out a few days early,\u201d he says. \u201cAre you\u2026 okay?\u201d I ask. I scrutinize him for signs of drug use, but he looks clear-eyed and healthy. \u201cAll good,\u201d he says. \u201cHow did you get here?\u201d He tilts his head toward the parking lot where his mom sits in her Mercedes. \u201cWhat time are you done?\u201d \u201cFour p.m. It\u2019s my last day.\u201d \u201cI know. I think that\u2019s why they held me until now. I should have been out on work release too.\u201d \u201cI think they are trying to separate us. Did you know I got moved to Family Preservation Court instead of drug court?\u201d \u201cYeah, Maya told me. It\u2019s some more bullshit.\u201d \u201cI think it\u2019s good. It\u2019s going to help us get Kaden back.\u201d He wraps his arms around me tightly. \u201cNobody is going to separate us again. They can do what they want. It\u2019s me and you.\u201d I murmur agreement and rest my head on his shoulder. It feels good to not be alone, but I close my eyes so I can pretend I feel more than that for the husband I have not seen in such a long time. \u201cWe\u2019ll be back to get you at four p.m. My mom is going to help us find a place.\u201d \u201cAre you serious?\u201d \u201cYep. I told you I\u2019d take care of things.\u201d I look over at Carol in the car and give her a big smile and a wave. Finding a place is the first step to getting Kaden back, and I\u2019m so grateful she\u2019s willing to help. My mind flashes on all the girls in G who won\u2019t have help finding a place so they can get their babies back. There\u2019s Section 8 housing, but the waitlist is three years long. I applied for it from G, but with a wait that long almost everyone\u2019s CPS clocks would run out before they get bumped up the list. Then you have to find a landlord willing to take a voucher, and those landlords are rare. \u201cWe only need a one-bedroom,\u201d I say, \u201cso Kaden can have his own room, and we can sleep on a futon in the living room. Maybe even a studio, and we could divide it. He needs his own room in some way.\u201d My mind is racing. What does CPS require? What does Kaden need to feel like he\u2019s home? I know that he needs me, but I am not enough for CPS. \u201cWe\u2019re going to look for places while you finish up. Try to find something we can look at in person today. My mom\u2019s booked us a hotel until we find a place.\u201d \u201cI have a few more days at the Hitching Post\u2026\u201d \u201cThere is no way I\u2019m staying at the Hitching Post. We\u2019ll grab all your stuff from there too.\u201d \u201cOkay\u2026\u201d It feels disconcerting to have someone else making decisions for me suddenly. It\u2019s another big change, and any change right now gives me vertigo. \u201cAnd what the hell did you do to your hair?\u201d asks DJ. I could ask him the same question, but instead I touch my head self-consciously. Last week, I bought a four-dollar box of brown hair dye and darkened my hair in my Hitching Post bathroom. \u201cI don\u2019t want people recognizing me,\u201d I say. \u201cI feel like I\u2019m getting stared at a lot on the bus. I want to be anonymous.\u201d \u201cFuck those people,\u201d says DJ. I\u2019m afraid of those people. Maybe people don\u2019t see the \u201cneighbor from hell\u201d when they stare at me, or maybe they do. All I see when I look in the mirror is that headline staring back at me. I don\u2019t want to be who I am, and the brown hair helps. I look in the mirror and I don\u2019t recognize the scared, anxious, brown-haired girl looking back at me. I was worried about how Kaden might react to my new hair color, but he hadn\u2019t even noticed. When we\u2019re together, we\u2019re just looking in each other\u2019s eyes and playing and talking and laughing. I could be bald and he wouldn\u2019t care. I\u2019m just his mom and he\u2019s just my KK, my \u201cCakes,\u201d and we don\u2019t care about anything but being together. Dylan, Cody, and Ty came to see me at the motel, and they were happy but cautious, especially Dylan. \u201cTrust is something you have to earn, Mom,\u201d he said, and he\u2019s right. All I can do is show up each day and do the next right thing. I don\u2019t care if DJ hates my hair. Plus, if someone calls Probation with a fake report, they\u2019ll give the wrong description of me. My brown hair is my biggest safety net right now. Carol helps us rent a four-hundred-square-foot apartment, and we move in a week later. She lends us a car too. The rent is a thousand dollars a month. Our mortgage used to be more than five times that, but now I have no idea how we will pay. Carol will help us for a few months, but we both need jobs. I have no idea how to find a job that will hire a felon, much less allow me to leave on any given day for one to three hours depending on whether Probation, Family Preservation Court, or CPS demands a drug test. Since it\u2019s all County-related, you would think one of the agencies could do the random drug testing and share the results with the others, but it doesn\u2019t work that way. After two months of supervised visits and drug tests and drug court for DJ and Family Preservation Court for me, our social worker comes to inspect our apartment. It\u2019s only one bedroom, but I deck that out with books and art supplies and a bunk bed with a slide that I know Kaden will love. Some of it is stuff from our old house, others are things I find at Goodwill and the dollar store and garage sales. You can pretty much see the whole apartment once you step in the door, but I show our CPS worker the entire place like I am giving a grand tour. It\u2019s not much. It\u2019s not fancy. But it has a bedroom for Kaden, I explain. It\u2019s safe. It\u2019s a home. I show her how the futon turns into a bed and say that\u2019s where we will sleep while Kaden has the bedroom. I doubt he will sleep on his own, but I don\u2019t tell her that. After the tour, she says she will allow unsupervised visits, then overnights. If all goes well, we can be reunified before his fifth birthday in December. This feels like the first victory I\u2019ve had in a year. \u201cIt\u2019s a cute place,\u201d she says. \u201cI\u2019ll see you in Family Preservation Court next week.\u201d I thank her profusely. DJ is standing behind me during this exchange, and as soon as she leaves he goes into the bathroom. I can see Kaden living here. I can see reading him books as he falls asleep. Two more months and I\u2019ll be able to breathe again. Sleep again. I open the bathroom door to tell my husband how excited I am, how for the first time I see a glimmer of a path forward, how I feel hope again. He startles when I burst in. It takes me a while to register what I\u2019m seeing. A mirror, white lines of powder on the mirror, a rolled-up dollar bill. I have no words. \u201cI failed my drug test,\u201d he says. \u201cDrug court is remanding me for the weekend.\u201d \u201cWhat do you mean they\u2019re remanding you?\u201d I ask. I know what remanding means; it means the bailiffs are going to take him back to jail and lock him up. What I don\u2019t understand is how this could be happening. How he could say he\u2019s taking care of us and then do this. \u201cI tested dirty, so I have to go back to jail from tonight until Monday morning.\u201d He says this slowly, as if I\u2019m an idiot, and shrugs like it\u2019s no big deal. \u201cWhat did you test dirty for?\u201d \u201cHeroin.\u201d I point at the white lines on the mirror. \u201cWhat is that?\u201d He looks surprised at the question. \u201cIt\u2019s no big deal.\u201d It\u2019s a big fucking deal to me. I feel stupid for not knowing. For somehow thinking we were on the same page. That we were a team. That he had finally changed. If I stay with DJ, I will end up back in jail, and I will lose Kaden. I can\u2019t go back, and I won\u2019t lose him. \u201cGet out,\u201d I say quietly. \u201cTake all your stuff. Take the car your mom gave us. Get out.\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s no big deal,\u201d he insists. \u201cI\u2019m snorting my antidepressants. I just did heroin once last week with my homeboy from jail. That\u2019s why I tested dirty. This is just my antidepressant.\u201d \u201cYou have ten minutes to get all your stuff.\u201d He swears and punches the bathroom door. \u201cEight minutes.\u201d He piles his things into the car. I know his mom won\u2019t pay the rent now that I\u2019ve kicked him out. I know that without a car it will be hard to get to all the courthouses and drug tests and therapy sessions, but I will find a way. He pulls a towel from the closet and stacks it on his suitcase. His face is red except for the dusting of white powder around his nostrils. \u201cYou hypocrite. You\u2019re just looking for a way out of this marriage. You\u2019re making a huge mistake, you heartless bitch!\u201d he shouts. I don\u2019t have anything to say to that, but I\u2019m not heartless. I\u2019m Mama Love, so I open the linen closet, pull out a washcloth, and place it on top of his towel. He slams the front door as he leaves, and I rush to lock it. In jail it\u2019s not okay to snitch, but I\u2019m not in jail anymore. My hands shake as I dial our CPS worker, but my voice is strong as I tell her everything. \n chapter 15 JOINT AND SEVERAL I get word that Kaden will be allowed to move in with me right before his fifth birthday. Darcy brings over all his clothing vacuum-sealed in clear plastic bags. Right now she controls access to my older boys, so I smile at her and pretend I have forgotten all the ways I believe she tried to thwart this reunification. \u201cI\u2019m not sure what I will do for his birthday, but you\u2019re welcome to come,\u201d I say. She smiles a big fake smile and looks around my minuscule apartment. \u201cYou might want to do something at my house. Well, in the yard. I don\u2019t want you in my house.\u201d I fake smile back at her while Kaden grips my hand tightly. When she leaves he and I just look at each other. \u201cDo you want to cuddle?\u201d I ask. \u201cRead a book?\u201d He just holds his arms out to me. I pick him up and he clings to me and nestles his head in my neck. I carry him to the couch, and he stays wrapped around me as I sit. I kiss his head and face and soak in the warmth of him. We\u2019ve had two overnight visits, but he knows today that he doesn\u2019t have to go back. As long as I don\u2019t do drugs, we can stay together forever. And then I remember all the probation requirements that can send me back to jail even if I do nothing wrong. A missed phone call. A missed test. A missed check-in at court. Anyone calling at any time to make something up about me. But today he is with me, and I try to remain in the power of now. I rock him and murmur sweet words into the top of his head. We sit like this until he falls asleep in my arms. The memory of him sobbing and CPS pulling him away from my handcuffed arms flickers across my mind like it always does when I have a quiet moment, but I will it away. I vow silently to do everything I can to make this last year up to him. My arms go numb holding him while he sleeps, but I will not disturb him by moving. When he wakes up, we walk the two feet into our miniature kitchen, where I get him grapes and make him a sandwich. We sit at the tiny Formica table I found at a garage sale \u201cFree\u201d pile, and I ask him what he wants to do for his birthday. He shrugs shyly. \u201cHold on,\u201d I say. \u201cI got you something!\u201d I run to his room and grab a balloon I bought at the dollar store. Kaden loves balloons, and he loves to play a game he calls pack attack, where you hit the balloon back and forth to keep it from touching the ground. \u201cWe can play pack attack,\u201d I say, handing him the balloon. He carefully cradles it in his hands. \u201cThank you,\u201d he says solemnly. He sets the balloon on the table, walks over to me, and wraps his arms around my waist. I hug him back, not knowing why he is so serious. \u201cOf course,\u201d I say brightly. He looks up at me, all blond hair and blue eyes and chubby cheeks. \u201cThank you, Mommy. I love my birthday present.\u201d I see what the last year has done to him. A single balloon is the most he can imagine from me. \u201cIt\u2019s just a balloon,\u201d I assure him. \u201cNot your birthday present.\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s okay,\u201d he says, but I hear the doubt in his voice. \u201cI was thinking we could get some Star Wars Legos,\u201d I say, \u201cand then we can build a spaceship!\u201d \u201cReally?\u201d \u201cYes, really!\u201d I give him big, loud smooches. He laughs at the smooches and then turns and grabs the balloon. \u201cPack attack!\u201d he yells. I dive to keep it from hitting the ground and yell \u201cPack attack\u201d as I send it soaring into the living room. He laughs and runs after it, and we spend the next hour chasing it around our tiny apartment. Later that night when he\u2019s asleep, I swallow my pride and call Darcy. I ask her if I can set up a bouncy house in her yard for Kaden\u2019s birthday. I then ask her if I can speak to my older boys, and they agree to help me set up a treasure hunt on the beach for Kaden as well. For Dylan\u2019s fifth birthday I had a huge party with Big Bird from Sesame Street and pony rides for all the kids. For Cody\u2019s fifth birthday we went to Disneyland. For Ty\u2019s fifth birthday we had a giant pool party and costumed Barney the Purple Dinosaur. I stay awake almost all night, constantly checking on Kaden while he sleeps and wondering how I\u2019m going to pay for a bouncy house and a birthday party and Legos. I know presents shouldn\u2019t matter to me, but they do. Five is a big birthday and I missed his birthday last year. And Christmas. And everything for all my boys. I\u2019ve been so focused on the acute crisis of not losing Kaden that I haven\u2019t begun to tackle the chronic problem of creating a home for all my boys. I need a big house. I need space for them. I\u2019m embarrassed at the idea they will be embarrassed by where I live right now. I spent so much of my childhood embarrassed by my family, and now I think my own boys must be embarrassed to have me as their mom. I\u2019m certainly embarrassed to be me. A part of me simply wants to give up. Call it. Game over. I will never be the mom they deserve. And another part of me knows I\u2019m just feeling raw and hypersensitive and sober and alone. I want to give up, but I won\u2019t. One birthday party at a time. Every time I close my eyes over the next few weeks, I see Kaden\u2019s face turned up to mine in gratitude for a dollar-store balloon. Within weeks his good behavior, his excessive politeness, ends. He is eating well, which is a relief, but now he offers up tantrums and random bursts of anger. I theorize that subconsciously he\u2019s trying to push me away just to see if I go. He tests me every chance he gets, and through it all I try to remain steady and nonreactive. I tell the CPS-ordered therapist that his rage is a relief. \u201cWhy?\u201d she asks. \u201cBecause the good behavior meant that he thought his bad behavior had caused our separation. That I left him on purpose because of something he did. I\u2019d much rather he blame me than blame himself.\u201d She nods but, like a therapist, doesn\u2019t indicate whether I\u2019m right or wrong. \u201cHe thought I got him a dollar-store balloon for his birthday,\u201d I say. \u201cThat sounds like a fine birthday present.\u201d \u201cNo, it was the look on his face. He was so sad and serious and he was\u2026 he was caretaking me in that moment. I grew up thinking I was responsible for everybody else in my family\u2014that their well-being depended on me. I can\u2019t have him think that, I just can\u2019t!\u201d I didn\u2019t mean to say all that. She works for the court and I need to focus only on Kaden\u2019s well-being. \u201cTrauma is tricky,\u201d she observes. \u201cWell, what should I do?\u201d She tilts her head in the way only basset hounds and therapists do. \u201cWhat do you think you should do?\u201d If I were president I would sign an executive order never allowing therapists or anyone to answer a question with a question. Especially not this question. If people knew what to do, would therapy even be a profession? She must see the look of disgust on my face because she basset-hounds her head to the other side, turns over a sheet of paper on her clipboard, and clears her throat. \u201cYou might want to consider working to process your own trauma.\u201d \u201cWhat trauma?\u201d \u201cWell, to start there is the trauma of your arrest, being in jail, Kaden being in the system.\u201d \u201cThat\u2019s not trauma,\u201d I say. \u201cI caused all that. All those things are my fault, not my trauma.\u201d \u201cTrauma is complex\u2026\u201d \u201cWill Kaden be okay?\u201d I interrupt her. \u201cLike I said, he\u2019s a perfectly normal child. Five-year-olds have tantrums and meltdowns all the time. This is normal behavior. Don\u2019t read into it too much.\u201d She flips through his folder. \u201cHe does well in preschool, he\u2019s sweet, he\u2019s communicative, he laughs a lot, he plays, he has friends, he\u2019s eating, he\u2019s sleeping, he\u2019s a happy and well-adjusted little boy, and he obviously loves you.\u201d It\u2019s hard for me to believe it could be true. I desperately want it to be true. The therapist clears her throat and sets the folder down. \u201cBut tell me, how are you sleeping? When is the last time you laughed and played with anyone besides Kaden? Do you have friends?\u201d \u201cWhat do you think?\u201d I ask, tilting my head pointedly to the side. I am nervous for our next CPS court hearing. Kaden is living with me full time, and as hard as it has been to meet all my requirements alone, it\u2019s even harder to do it with a five-year-old in tow. I was a single mom of three boys for almost ten years before I married DJ so I am no stranger to the challenges, but without a job, money, a car, or a friend it is like I am running an obstacle course designed by a sadist while carrying a five-year-old on my back. I can\u2019t put him down. I don\u2019t want to put him down. But we are clinging so tightly to each other that it\u2019s hard for either of us to get enough air to run this marathon. A friend of my mom\u2019s has an old car she doesn\u2019t want. It barely runs, but it\u2019s mine if I can get up to San Francisco and drive it back home. I have to go to traffic court to get my license reinstated because I couldn\u2019t fix an expired registration fix-it ticket while I was in jail so my license was suspended. It\u2019s another fine I must add to the growing list of court fees that amount to service charges for being on probation, for being monitored by the courts, for paperwork that\u2019s been filed. I can\u2019t opt out of these. These charges are yet another way the system makes it seemingly impossible to get past my past. But my next visit to CPS court makes me think I can put my past behind me. Judge Guy has long brown hair, big brown eyes, and a warm smile. Our massive files are stacked before her, and she peers out at us over the top of them. She quickly observes and interprets the fact that, for the first time in this courtroom, DJ and I are not sitting together. \u201cBoth parents are responsible for meeting the reunification requirements individually,\u201d she reminds us. \u201cBut do we both have to?\u201d I quickly whisper to my new CPS attorney whose name I don\u2019t even know. \u201cWhat if DJ doesn\u2019t do anything? What if he relapses? What if he\u2019s in jail?\u201d Judge Guy seems to know what I am whispering because before my attorney can even respond she says, \u201cI\u2019d like to remind all parties that this court also has the power to determine custody matters, both legal and physical. That can be done here and not in family divorce court. That can be settled prior to divorce court proceedings.\u201d I let this sink in. If I meet all the requirements, I can get permanent custody of Kaden regardless of what DJ does or doesn\u2019t do. Judge Guy asks me how Kaden is doing now that he\u2019s living with me. I report on his progress, and she tells me I\u2019m doing a great job. She doesn\u2019t address DJ. I latch on to her validation like a life raft. When the hearing is over, my attorney tells me that if I do all the work, DJ\u2019s actions will have no effect on Kaden\u2019s custody situation. \u201cHe can do drugs, go to jail, whatever he wants. If you have sole custody, it will be up to you to protect Kaden, to show you will do that even if it means keeping him from his father. If you don\u2019t, they can take him again.\u201d It is one more weight I must carry. Kaden and his dad love each other, but I may have to keep them apart to keep Kaden. Somehow, DJ graduates drug court early. I\u2019m still on probation with two months left at Sobriety Works, but he\u2019s done with probation, with random drug tests, and the obligation to pay back our debts. The probation department has even given him a thousand dollars, presumably to help him get back on his feet. Never mind that his mother is bankrolling him. When he gloats about this bonus over the phone, I shoot back, \u201cWhy would they do that? What about our restitution? You\u2019re not supposed to get off probation until all restitution is paid.\u201d \u201cI don\u2019t know why, it\u2019s part of drug court. I didn\u2019t ask questions; I took the money. But our restitution is now your restitution.\u201d \u201cThe restitution is joint and several,\u201d I say. \u201cWe\u2019re responsible together and equally.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m off probation, which means I don\u2019t have to pay anything. The \u2018several\u2019 means you. You are responsible now.\u201d The unfairness of this has me shaking. I\u2019m so angry, but my anger always comes out in tears and a wobbly voice. \u201cYou aren\u2019t going to help?\u201d I ask. \u201cYou\u2019re going to make me pay it all back myself?\u201d \u201cMy mom paid part of it so we could get our plea, that was my share.\u201d \u201cShe paid that for both of us, for Kaden.\u201d \u201cNope.\u201d Paying off thousands of dollars all by myself is impossible. I will be on probation forever. \u201cCan you even look at yourself in the mirror right now?\u201d I try to say this with righteous force, but it comes out weak and unsteady. Not the effect I was going for. \u201cHalf that money is bullshit money for things we didn\u2019t do. I\u2019m not paying anything.\u201d \u201cSo I\u2019m going to take care of Kaden, do everything for CPS, pay back the money, while you do\u2026 what?\u201d I walk out the back door of our apartment so Kaden can\u2019t hear me. The minute I am outside, my voice matches the anger I feel. I am yelling. \u201cShoot heroin with your ridiculous homeboys? You grew up in fucking Los Gatos! You\u2019re going to dress like you\u2019re a gangster now and go in and out of jail like it\u2019s what, cool? What gang do you represent again\u2026 the mortgage broker gang? The mommy-pays-your-rent crew?\u201d I sound ridiculous even to myself, but it\u2019s easier to get mad than to feel betrayed, abandoned, lost, alone. After I slam the phone down, I take Kaden for a walk. We walk away from the beach toward Santa Cruz. It\u2019s only when we are a block away from the Gemma offices that I realize where I\u2019ve been going. Gemma. Cassandra. Graduation. The last place I felt welcomed and celebrated. There\u2019s a new executive director named Cynthia who I don\u2019t know very well but who invites me into her office. She offers Kaden some toys, and he plays in a sitting area next to her office while I vent and spew to her about all my struggles. \u201cBut you\u2019re doing it,\u201d she points out. \u201cYou are showing up every day and doing it.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m so tired,\u201d I moan, and tears start to come. I quickly wipe them away. \u201cOf course you\u2019re tired.\u201d She looks through the open door at Kaden and then back at me. \u201cBut you\u2019re winning. You\u2019ve already won. Look how much you\u2019ve done in such a short time.\u201d I nod and try to muster some sense of accomplishment, of pride, but I\u2019m still wading in the unfairness of DJ\u2019s situation versus mine. \u201cI\u2019m pretty sure you haven\u2019t made it this far by feeling sorry for yourself.\u201d I laugh at this tough-love comment. Cynthia has multicolored hair and is short and small and beautiful. She also seems like a straightshooter, which I appreciate. \u201cDefinitely not,\u201d I say. \u201cWell then, it\u2019s probably not time to start. Besides, there\u2019s a lot of women who have it a lot worse.\u201d She glances over at Kaden, who stands in the open doorway, and gives him a big smile. \u201cI have cookies,\u201d she says. \u201cLet\u2019s have some cookies.\u201d So we have a picnic on her floor, and Kaden tells her about his bunk bed and how he wants to make curtains around them. \u201cI\u2019m excellent at making curtains,\u201d she says. \u201cWhy don\u2019t we go to the fabric store?\u201d Kaden jumps up and down with excitement and looks at me to ask if it\u2019s okay. \u201cLet\u2019s go to the fabric store, then,\u201d I shout. Cookies, curtains, and a new friend. Such simple gifts really, but they\u2019re just what I needed to get through another day. I graduate Sobriety Works and Family Preservation Court, and a few months later Judge Guy gives me permanent custody of Kaden. As amazing as it feels, it also feels anticlimactic. Every waking moment was devoted to getting him back\u2014it was all survival and struggle and fight. And now the war is suddenly over, and I don\u2019t know how to settle into a normal life. I don\u2019t even know what a normal life is supposed to look like. Maybe I never did. When I ask my new probation officer about getting off probation and getting my record expunged, he tells me that\u2019s only for people in drug court, not Family Preservation Court. \u201cBut I was moved out of drug court as a reward. I was promised the same benefits in Family Preservation Court.\u201d \u201cThere\u2019s nothing in the case notes about that. There\u2019s no order from the judge about that.\u201d \u201cBut my codefendant\u2026\u201d \u201cHe was in drug court.\u201d Yet again, I\u2019m facing brutal and inexplicable inequity, and yet again, I can do nothing about it. I will be on probation for the next five years. At any time, I can be called in to drug test. Any member of law enforcement can search my home and person and car and computer at any time. I can\u2019t leave the county without permission. I have to pay off court fees and fines, which have compounding interest monthly, and I have to pay all remaining restitution. Normal is still a long way off. And I was a fool to think the war had really ended. \n chapter 16 FUCKING GOOGLE In the real world, one graduate degree does not trump one felony, much less thirty-two. Because one of my felonies is for drug possession, I can\u2019t get any cash welfare benefits. The welfare system automatically assumes anyone with a prior drug conviction will spend their money on dope rather than rent, utilities, gas, and food. It doesn\u2019t matter that all my drug tests are clean, or that I\u2019m a graduate of Sobriety Works. The conviction is on my record and that\u2019s the only context that matters. If I had gone to drug court this wouldn\u2019t be an issue\u2014my record would have been expunged. The only way around this is to go back to court, appeal this particular conviction, and get it reduced to a misdemeanor. Another giant hurdle that my short legs can\u2019t clear. Plus, I don\u2019t have childcare and the idea of bringing Kaden to criminal court is untenable. I couldn\u2019t leave him sitting in the back of the courtroom while I stand in front of the judge. And what if something went wrong and they tried to take me back to jail? I can catastrophize at an Olympic level, and I imagine him sitting alone in the back of the courtroom while I am dragged away in handcuffs. Every job I apply for asks me to check a box if I have a criminal record and then explain the charges. There\u2019s not enough space on the application to list all my convictions. And, like welfare, there\u2019s no room for context in these applications, and certainly no place to explain that as long as I\u2019m not on drugs I am a valuable and productive member of society worthy of employment. Online I check the box even though I know it means I\u2019ll be automatically screened out. I could choose not to check the box, but, unfortunately, my recovery program is built on a foundation of rigorous honesty. Rigorous honesty seems great in principle, but it doesn\u2019t translate well to a job search. Or the dating scene, where I\u2019m not having much luck either. It\u2019s hard enough for any soon-to-be-twice-divorced mom of four to hook up, but add the Sentinel headline and my criminal history, and my dating profile should just show a picture of a red flag. I\u2019m lonely but resigned to the fact my future will not contain romance. I also know that picking great life partners is not part of my skill set. Sometimes, I sit on the back porch after Kaden is asleep and imagine someone loving me again. But the idea is as distant and unreachable as the stars I stare at. I feed my melancholy by listening to sad Irish love ballads by David Gray and sad American love ballads by John Mayer. A part of me just loves to wallow. Kaden starts kindergarten, and I am on high alert at back-to-school night and parent-teacher meetings, searching for signs that anyone recognizes me or knows about my past. He makes friends easily, but when other parents want to organize playdates I am at a loss. I\u2019m embarrassed by my tiny apartment, and I don\u2019t want to face the prospect of taking Kaden to their homes and making the small talk that would either reveal my felonious, addictive past or break my code of rigorous honesty. I enroll Kaden in a subsidized after-school program for working parents so he gets to socialize, and I get to be just one of many harried parents trying to afford childcare who have no time or energy to make new friends or linger over coffee. We wave to each other at pickup, but it\u2019s from a safe distance. Cynthia from Gemma calls and says she has a temporary job for me, and I lunge at the opportunity. She wants me to case-manage other formerly incarcerated women with minor children and help them find jobs in the community under a state grant for the Community Action Board. CAB is the nonprofit agency that the Gemma Program runs under. It\u2019s barely enough money to pay the rent, but it pays the rent. My job is to convince employers to hire the formerly incarcerated, match women with the employers, and then case-manage the women so they don\u2019t fuck it up. Basically I have to Mama Love them into compliance\u2014make sure they go to meetings, get out of toxic relationships that might interfere with their employment, help them find the right clothes, and coach them on how to act in different professional settings. I listen to their problems and work with them to find solutions. I do the same with employers. In theory, it seems like a no-brainer for business owners because half the employee\u2019s pay comes from the grant money, but most of my job with the employers is convincing them that a formerly incarcerated woman makes the best employee. And it\u2019s easy, because they do. Someone who\u2019s been behind bars already knows that crime doesn\u2019t pay. They\u2019ve lost everything and appreciate the simple joy of having a job. They\u2019ve dealt with prison politics, so office politics present no challenge. They understand power structures. Each is on probation or parole, so they follow all the rules. They\u2019re used to getting up early and working hard for no pay, so they appreciate minimum wage. But most important, every one of them has something to prove. That they are valuable, worthy, and so much more than a criminal record. I know this about them because I am them. I met extremely smart women in jail\u2014CEO-level smart. Former drug dealers who were sales and marketing geniuses, others who were hustlers and designers and innovators. I\u2019d like to see Elon Musk design Ikea-level modular furniture out of Tampax boxes and toothpaste. I challenge any beauty influencer to create a full glam makeover out of hot water and a box of colored pencils. Or any Michelin-starred chef to make a delicious meal out of Cheetos, ramen, leftover hard-boiled eggs, hot water, and mystery meat. I\u2019m not great at advocating for myself, but I\u2019m really good at advocating for others, and I make some great matches in the business community. I help the women I manage form a co-op with other women in the program to help with childcare. I reach out to other nonprofits to help with r\u00e9sum\u00e9s, business clothing, and transportation vouchers. Arden loves books, so I find her a job at a local bookstore. Hannah tells me about her childhood love of horses\u2014the thing that gave her meaning before meth took over\u2014and I find work for her at an equine therapy program. After her wage subsidy runs out, they keep her on and promote her. The women work harder than is asked, always taking pride in their jobs and exceeding expectations. By all measures, the grant is a success, but, for reasons I cannot guess, the state doesn\u2019t renew it. During my work for CAB, I see that my struggles are hardly mine alone. The barriers to becoming productive members of society are huge for just about anybody who\u2019s been incarcerated. As a condition of probation or parole you have to have a job; to get a job you have to check that box that says you have a criminal record, which excludes you from getting a job. In order to show up to work every day you need somewhere to live; to find somewhere to live, you must have a job. The system is cobbled together out of catch-22s. I learn that if you\u2019ve been incarcerated, you\u2019re ten times more likely to be homeless, and if you\u2019re homeless, you\u2019re eleven times more likely to become incarcerated. It\u2019s a crazy loop-the-loop that\u2019s somehow overlooked in all the conversations about how to reduce recidivism. The system is illogical in its design, broken in its execution, and guaranteed to fail those it allegedly serves. When the grant ends, my job ends. I\u2019m back where I started, which is nowhere. Until Cynthia comes to my rescue again. She calls me shortly after the grant runs out and tells me Cassandra is leaving her position as program director of Gemma. \u201cI want you to apply for the job,\u201d she says. \u201cAre you crazy?\u201d \u201cNo, you\u2019re perfect for it. You know the program, you know the needs of the women in jail, you\u2019ve been advocating for incarcerated women, and you have experience developing curriculum from teaching in graduate school.\u201d When she puts it that way, I consider it. \u201cWhat do I need to do?\u201d \u201cFirst, you formally apply. And then there will be a series of interviews with me, with CAB, with the sheriff\u2019s office and the probation department. All of them contribute to funding the Gemma Program. I love working with you, you\u2019re amazing, and this is perfect.\u201d The pay is twenty-two dollars an hour, which feels like a fortune. I know I will have to find childcare two mornings a week so Kaden can be brought to school while I pick up the women from Blaine Street in the Gemma van and take them to the church. It\u2019s an obstacle, but I\u2019ll figure that out after I get the job. My r\u00e9sum\u00e9 is impressive if you ignore the felonies, and I\u2019ve finally found a job that ignores them. I make it through three rounds of interviews. My final interview is with the deputy whose office I used to clean\u2014whose mother I used to talk to. She\u2019s in charge of the jail now, and she is a tough interrogator, but I can tell by the smile and hug she gives me at the end that I nailed it. Before Cynthia calls to officially offer me the job, I\u2019ve already made lists of potential volunteers and classes that will help the women deal with life after incarceration. I know these women and what they need, because I know what I didn\u2019t know and what I needed. I imagine this being my new career\u2014advocate, changemaker, champion of the underdogs. I think back to the sunny winter day when I sat in Elizabeth\u2019s office newly out on bail and heard about the plea deal. Then I still believed, like the twelve million other people who were arrested that year and the two million who were behind bars, that paying for your crimes meant doing your time and following Probation\u2019s orders, and then your debt was paid. I had no idea how wrong I was, and I wanted to do my part to change that. I\u2019ve told everyone about my new job\u2014my mom, the boys, my probation officer. Cynthia calls me on a Monday to tell me my business cards have arrived, and I can start in a week. On Friday morning, I\u2019m just about to go to a twelve-step meeting when Cynthia calls again. \u201cHello, boss lady,\u201d I answer. \u201cHi,\u201d she says. \u201cWhere are you?\u201d \u201cI\u2019m just about to go into a meeting.\u201d \u201cI have bad news,\u201d she says. \u201cI\u2019m so sorry.\u201d My stomach flips. \u201cWhat is it?\u201d I sit down under a tree. \u201cYou can\u2019t have the job.\u201d \u201cWhat? Why?\u201d \u201cIt came from Probation. They said there is no way someone on probation is going to be allowed to take women out of Blaine and supervise them.\u201d \u201cBut Probation was part of the interview process,\u201d I say. \u201cThis doesn\u2019t make sense. Probation was aware of this every step of the way.\u201d Cynthia is quiet for a while. \u201cIt\u2019s coming from higher up. There\u2019s nothing I can do.\u201d Tom, my old boyfriend, is still the district attorney. His wife is still high up in Probation. I ask if it was her. \u201cI don\u2019t know who it was. All I know is we can\u2019t hire you for the job.\u201d \u201cYou can,\u201d I beg. \u201cYou\u2019re the head of the program. How can they tell you who to hire?\u201d \u201cThey can\u2019t,\u201d Cynthia says. \u201cBut they said Probation would pull their funding if we hired you. Without that money, there\u2019s no Gemma Program.\u201d \u201cI understand,\u201d I say. \u201cI feel so bad,\u201d says Cynthia. \u201cI\u2019m so, so sorry. And I\u2019m furious, it\u2019s so unfair, it\u2019s\u2026\u201d I know this isn\u2019t her fault, but I can\u2019t hear any more about the unfairness of the system I\u2019m in from people who aren\u2019t. \u201cI have to get to my meeting,\u201d I say, interrupting her. \u201cI have to go.\u201d \u201cOkay, but\u2026\u201d I hang up and walk back to my car. I don\u2019t have the energy to go to a meeting and hear some old guy in recovery say that \u201csome days you are the bug, and some days you are the windshield,\u201d or hear platitudes like \u201cyour worst day sober is still better than your best day using.\u201d It\u2019s just not true. Because sometimes your worst day sober is your worst day ever and getting high seems like a really great day. But what do I know\u2026 today I am just a bug. I find an online job at a company called Content Divas where I write blog posts on different topics. There was no background check, just a writing assignment. I have to produce 1,600 words a day. First, it\u2019s ten different posts about savings accounts, then travel in Hawaii. The pay is only enough for gas and rice, but it\u2019s something while I look for a full-time gig. The writing is fun, and I like having a deadline each day and the creative challenge of finding yet another metaphor to highlight the benefits of an online savings account. I imagine walking trails on Diamond Head in Waikiki and write as if I am there, smelling the plumeria and gardenia and being transformed in such a profound way that readers are driven to book their tickets through Content Divas\u2019 client. I\u2019m all too aware of the irony that both a savings account and travel to Hawaii are far out of reach for me. The reality is that I am out of a job, out of money, and out of options. The car I got from my mom\u2019s friend now leaks oil faster than I can afford to replace it, and it can\u2019t accelerate uphill. Today I have an appointment at the county welfare office to appeal the rejection of my application for cash benefits because of my criminal record. I\u2019ve avoided Craigslist when looking for a job because I don\u2019t want to get scammed or murdered, but I realize it\u2019s the only chance of reaching employers without being disqualified by the criminal background question. I decide that if I\u2019m asked, I will reveal my background, but if not I won\u2019t volunteer the information. It\u2019s a don\u2019t ask, don\u2019t tell policy that I feel still jibes with my rigorous honesty policy. I find an ad that\u2019s ten days old, which is a lifetime in Craigslist years, but I call anyway. The woman who answers tells me they are about to make a decision, so I should send an email immediately. It\u2019s an extensive ad for a part-time job as an assistant at a literary agency, but it seems like a fun writing exercise and a way to practice answering honestly without ratting myself out. I think about how great it would be to work with books\u2014my first addiction. Along with my r\u00e9sum\u00e9, I\u2019m supposed to write a paragraph about how I exemplify each required quality: organized, integrity, problem-solving, communicator, investigative, computer savvy, flexible, good with money, committed, and educated. I quickly google the company and Doug Abrams to make sure he\u2019s not a serial killer, while at the same time doubting that someone who works with Archbishop Desmond Tutu is actually advertising on Craigslist. I say a quick prayer and pull up a blank screen to write a letter to go with my r\u00e9sum\u00e9. I write about how good I am under pressure, at meeting deadlines, at multitasking. How there is no task too small or too unimportant for me to do, and that I\u2019m willing to work hard. I share my education and my writing experience. The integrity topic stumps me for a while, but I define integrity as keeping my word and showing up to do what I\u2019ve committed to doing. I don\u2019t want to lie about my criminal background, but nowhere in the application does it ask me about my past. I read it over and am happy with my responses. I allude to mistakes I\u2019ve made without saying what they are. Don\u2019t ask. Don\u2019t tell. That has to be good enough for now, so I send the email. Hours later, when I read it all over, I realize that I\u2019ve misspelled my own email address on my r\u00e9sum\u00e9. So much for that job. Five days later I have an appointment to apply for food stamps. Kaden is with me, and I spend hours trying to entertain him in a dismal lobby crammed with hard plastic chairs and miserable people. We build Legos together while I rehearse in my head exactly how I will plead my case. How can they look at his cute face and then tell me that he doesn\u2019t deserve food because his mom once had a drug conviction? Punish me but don\u2019t punish my son. My phone rings. I startle and drop the Legos. I quickly silence it and look around the waiting room apologetically. I may be a criminal, but I\u2019m not rude, so I answer with a whisper. \u201cHello?\u201d The woman on the other end tells me she is Michelle, Doug Abrams\u2019s assistant, and he would like to meet with me for the job at Idea Architects, the literary agency. Can I be there in an hour? If I walk out of here now, I\u2019m not sure when or if I will get another appointment to appeal my case. And even if I could interview in an hour, I would need to find childcare, change my clothes, print out my r\u00e9sum\u00e9, and get gas. If the office is up a hill, I\u2019m not even sure my car could make it. I can\u2019t go. I hold the phone and watch Kaden walk over to the window and stare out. He needs a mom who is brave, who will feed him and protect him and love him. I don\u2019t feel brave, but\u2026 \u201cHello?\u201d says the woman on the phone. \u201cAre you still there?\u201d \u201cThank you,\u201d I say, with a loud exhale as I hurriedly pack up Kaden\u2019s toys. \u201cI will be there in an hour, of course. I\u2019m looking forward to meeting you and Mr. Abrams.\u201d Idea Architects is a room attached to Doug Abrams\u2019s house. And it\u2019s up a steep hill. But I get there on time. During the interview we discuss my r\u00e9sum\u00e9\u2014my experience teaching English composition and creative writing at UC Irvine, the small literary press I worked for while I was in college\u2014and nothing more. On my r\u00e9sum\u00e9 I only listed \u201crelevant work history\u201d so Doug doesn\u2019t ask me about anything I don\u2019t want to share. I don\u2019t list the pet cemetery business so I don\u2019t have to talk about losing it because of our drug use and jail. At the end of the interview he also doesn\u2019t ask, \u201cBy any chance, do you have an extensive criminal background?\u201d and I don\u2019t volunteer the information. What he does say is, \u201cI\u2019d like to try you out on some tasks first, that way we can both see if we\u2019re a good fit.\u201d \u201cI love tasks,\u201d I say eagerly. \u201cAnd I\u2019d like to have you edit something for me, and read a manuscript and tell me what you think. I\u2019ll pay you of course for these assignments.\u201d I agree to all of it and spend the next two weeks researching minivans and HEPA filters for him as part of my task list, and when he asks me to edit a biography of Desmond Tutu on a Saturday, I quickly learn how to use track changes in Word and return twelve chapters to him by Sunday. I read another manuscript he sent me\u2014a memoir of a doctor who was diagnosed with esophageal cancer and had some crazy woo-woo experiences but was living in gratitude and joy even in the face of death. I love this guy. I love his story. He makes me want to be someone who lives in gratitude and joy. The manuscript is a mess, though. Kaden and I are driving home from a twelve-step meeting when my phone rings. It\u2019s Doug. \u201cWhat did you think of the manuscript?\u201d he asks. It\u2019s after 9 p.m. \u201cI liked it, but it was pretty hard to follow the story,\u201d I say, not wanting to offend him. \u201cIt jumps around too much to track. As a reader I was lost.\u201d \u201cHow would you fix it?\u201d I pull over so I can take my phone off speaker. Kaden is falling asleep in his car seat, and Doug is a loud talker. \u201cWell,\u201d I stall. I do have an idea, but I don\u2019t want to sound ridiculous. I am one hundred percent sure I have a solution to the structural problem, but I have trouble saying it out loud. Sometimes, one hundred percent isn\u2019t enough. I\u2019m not an editor. It\u2019s been a decade or more since I\u2019ve been a writer. I look at Kaden in the rearview mirror, and I think one hundred percent will have to do. I take a deep breath. \u201cI would frame the whole book within the day of his diagnosis,\u201d I say. \u201cBut before he tells his family, and then the next chapter goes back to when he met his wife.\u201d I lay out the rest of the chronology quickly. \u201cHold on,\u201d says Doug. \u201cI\u2019m going to patch you in with the author so you can tell him your ideas.\u201d \u201cWait, what?\u201d I ask, but Doug has already put me on hold. I haven\u2019t talked to any authors since my MFA days, and they were my professors. I\u2019ve certainly never talked to an author with an agent before, and my heart starts hammering. I jump out of the car and stand in front of it so I can see Kaden through the window. I need to sound serious and professional for my surprise conference call. My previous conference call was an illegal three-way hookup in jail where I had a girl patch in Dylan\u2019s cell phone so I could wish him a happy eighteenth birthday. Impostor syndrome kicks into overdrive as I stammer out my approach to the author, but he loves it. He says it\u2019s brilliant. Doug tells him I will be working closely with him on the chapters and the proposal, and collaboratively writing it with him. I don\u2019t know what collaborative writing means. After we all hang up, Doug calls me right back. \u201cThat was great,\u201d he says. \u201cSo does this mean I have the job?\u201d \u201cYou have the job. Congratulations!\u201d I thank him and do a little dance in front of the car, and Kaden starts laughing from his car seat. I get back in the driver\u2019s seat and buckle up. \u201cWe did it, baby guy! We got the job!\u201d He smiles at me, half-asleep. That night as I carry him asleep into our little apartment, it feels like a home. I tuck him into bed in his clothes and kiss his forehead gently. I sit out on the back porch and look up at the stars and thank the universe. The job is only part-time, but it\u2019s a real job. I can work while Kaden is in school. I can help create books that matter, and I feel like I might matter again. For the first time in a very long time peace settles upon me. On my first day at the office, Michelle, who has worked with Doug for five years, greets me. She tells me the Wi-Fi, hands me the keys to Doug\u2019s house and a green pouch with a type of address book in it, and says here are all the passwords to everything and all the bank account and credit card numbers for the business and Doug\u2019s personal accounts. And then she leaves. For a minute I think I must be getting punked, and I stare after her as she drives away. I look around anxiously as if Probation is going to pop out at me. I am alone in Doug\u2019s house with all his credit card numbers. No algorithm needed. I shake my head at such naive trust at the same time as I vow never to break it. Apart from the editing and writing, I\u2019m going to be paying all the bills for the business and for Doug personally, scheduling meetings, coordinating with the bookkeeper, and doing the day-to-day business of running the agency. I don\u2019t know exactly what this entails because my predecessor only gave me a thirty-minute orientation before she peaced out for good. I open my computer and set up a company email address for myself. Michelle had told me that Doug wanted to send out a newsletter with the MyEmma program so that\u2019s what I should work on first. I have no idea what MyEmma is, but I find it online and then I look for the password in the address book and log in as Doug. I quickly learn the program and create a newsletter campaign. The hours in the Craigslist ad said five to twenty a week, but because I want to do more than is expected I bring work home with me every night and don\u2019t tell Doug I\u2019m working unpaid hours after Kaden goes to sleep. We quickly settle into a rhythm in the office and the five to twenty hours becomes twenty-five paid hours right away. At twenty dollars an hour this feels like a fortune. I work on the doctor\u2019s book proposal\u2014a document that\u2019s an abbreviated overview of the book that Doug will use to sell the book before it\u2019s written\u2014on the weekends on my own. I don\u2019t have a desk, so I sit in a big comfy chair across from Doug and work with my computer on my lap. I listen to Doug\u2019s calls with authors, with editors, with friends. He\u2019s smart and generous and curious about everything. He\u2019s enthusiastic and brilliant and full of book ideas. He has three children and a doctor wife, and they are all kind and loving. I sit in my chair watching out the window as his beautiful family passes by in the ebb and flow of their lives, and it makes me both happy and sad. Doug\u2019s son is the same age as Ty, and I love the sound of him and his friends coming and going. I love their laughter, their thumping, their mess, and their energy. Doug and I bounce ideas off each other easily, and he asks my opinion about everything\u2014covers, potential authors, book topic ideas, edits we are each making. It\u2019s like we have been working together for years. We are still in the awkward getting-to-know-you stage, and while at first I was a little suspicious of his kindness, I quickly see that he is just a really good guy. When he tells me I am brilliant, I drive home that afternoon in my leaky, sputtering car feeling brilliant. He doesn\u2019t know that on the day he says this it is my two-year sobriety birthday, but it still feels auspicious. My mind is clear. My energy for the job isn\u2019t chemically induced. Five days later I\u2019m still relishing my natural high and working away in my chair while Doug is on the phone with an author. I suddenly feel the air change, like when a hurricane or a tornado is about to hit, and the world goes silent, and the atmosphere gets thick and muggy and electric. I take a quick breath and slowly look up from my computer and meet Doug\u2019s eyes. In them, I see shock and horror. He ends his call suddenly, his face pale. He stammers as he says, \u201cGary was just telling me that employers now google all their employees, so I googled you.\u201d For a second I can\u2019t breathe. \u201cI didn\u2019t check your references,\u201d he says slowly. I don\u2019t know what to say or do. I want to run. I want to cry. I want to defend myself, but I can\u2019t. \u201cIt says you were convicted of identity theft. That you are the neighbor from\u2026\u201d He doesn\u2019t finish the headline because even in his shock, he is kind. My face feels hot, and the room spins. \u201cI have two years clean,\u201d I say. \u201cI made mistakes\u2026 I hurt people\u2026 but that\u2019s not who I am when I\u2019m clean.\u201d I want to tell him that because he trusted me so instantly and blindly, I would never betray that trust. I want to tell him that I\u2019m trying to get my children and my self-esteem back, and this work is my opportunity to do that, and I would never do anything to jeopardize it. I want to tell him that I don\u2019t even drive a mile over the speed limit because I will never break another law as long as I live. I will never do anything that will hurt my children again. I want to say all of this, but my throat is dry, and I don\u2019t want to start crying. \u201cWhy don\u2019t you leave now,\u201d Doug says. \u201cI need to think about this and call your references and talk to my family.\u201d I walk across the room and pick up the zippered bank pouch. I hand it to him along with the keys to the office. \u201cCome back tomorrow at eleven, and we\u2019ll talk,\u201d he adds. \u201cOkay,\u201d I say. \u201cI\u2019m sorry, Doug. I\u2019m really sorry.\u201d \u201cWe\u2019ll talk tomorrow.\u201d I am embarrassed and mortified and ashamed and lost. Fucking Google. I call Cynthia as soon as I get home and tell her what\u2019s happened. \u201cHe\u2019s already called me,\u201d she says. \u201cI told him that you managed a million-dollar grant and had access to all our information, and I would trust you without reservation.\u201d \u201cThank you,\u201d I say. \u201cHow did he seem?\u201d \u201cKind of stressed, to be honest, and a little mad at himself for not checking references before he hired you.\u201d \u201cWould you have told him I went to jail?\u201d \u201cNot unless he asked,\u201d she says. \u201cI can\u2019t go back there,\u201d I say. \u201cI can\u2019t drive back to that house and face him and lose my dream job all over again.\u201d \u201cYou can, and you will,\u201d says Cynthia. \u201cYou have so much to offer, remember that. I think he\u2019s a good guy. I think he\u2019s going to do the right thing.\u201d At about 4 a.m. I get up and sit on the porch until the sky gets light. The idea of seeing Doug again fills me with dread, but the idea of hiding from him gives me a worse feeling\u2014regret. If he fires me, then he fires me. For a brief shining moment I was brilliant, and I can be brilliant again. He is at his desk when I walk in and sit in my chair. Before he can say anything, I take a deep breath and start talking. \u201cI\u2019m sorry I put you in this position, Doug,\u201d I say, \u201cI really am, but I want to say that I\u2019m just as brilliant today as you thought I was before you read that article. And it\u2019s important to me that you know I didn\u2019t lie to you. If you had asked me, I would have told you. But let\u2019s face it, if I had told you before you asked, I would never have gotten this job. But I am sorry you had to find out the way you did.\u201d My voice quivers, but I speak firmly. \u201cI appreciate you saying that.\u201d Doug\u2019s voice is somber. \u201cI did call all your references. I talked to my family. And I spent all morning really thinking about what it means to walk your talk.\u201d I nod. \u201cLook, I can\u2019t work with Archbishop Tutu and not put into practice his ideas around forgiveness, redemption, and Ubuntu. So what I want to say is I believe in you.\u201d \u201cYou do?\u201d \u201cYes, and I want you to work here. Work with me. Idea Architects needs you.\u201d Tears flow freely down my face. Doug hands me a tissue. \u201cBut maybe we hire someone else to handle the finances, and you handle the writing and editing?\u201d \u201cFair enough,\u201d I say. It stings a little, but I understand. We hire a woman to handle the bills, but I end up overseeing it all anyway. Eventually Doug hands me back the green pouch, the woman leaves, and we don\u2019t talk any more about it. Five months into my job at Idea Architects, we find fraud on one of the credit card accounts\u2014a $

700 purchase for a gift basket that nobody ordered. We close the account, and the bank reverses the charge, and Doug seems not to be overly bothered by it since no money is lost. I can\u2019t let the incident go, though. I google the name of the business on the credit card statement and call the number. I talk a store worker into telling me where they shipped the wine basket after he says he cannot legally give me the name. I Google-search all over Ohio until I find all the names that match that address. Unfortunately, it\u2019s an apartment building so there are lots of names connected to the address. I call the store worker back and try again to get the name on the order. He still won\u2019t give it to me. \u201cHow about I just say some names to you, and you tell me if any of them sound familiar to you. That\u2019s not telling me anything. Please,\u201d I say, \u201cmy job depends on it.\u201d It\u2019s not quite true, but it feels true to me. I start reading down a list of names and he clears his throat after one man\u2019s name. \u201cDoes that name sound familiar to you?\u201d I ask. \u201cIt definitely sounds like a name I have seen before,\u201d he says. \u201cI would tell you I love you, but that would be weird, so thank you!\u201d I reverse address search until I find the phone number, a landline that matches the name and address. Easy-peasy. I haven\u2019t thought this all the way through, and as the phone rings in Ohio I realize I don\u2019t know what I\u2019m going to say. A man answers after about five rings. \u201cHi,\u201d I say. \u201cDid you order a gift basket in April?\u201d The man hangs up. I call back and I\u2019m surprised when he answers again. \u201cLook,\u201d I say, \u201cdon\u2019t hang up. I\u2019m not the police.\u201d \u201cWhat, then?\u201d \u201cI just need to know how you got the credit card number you used for the gift basket.\u201d He\u2019s silent for a long time and then, for some crazy reason, decides to answer me. \u201cA guy I don\u2019t know gave it to me, said it might be a working number.\u201d \u201cDid this guy live in California?\u201d \u201cI don\u2019t know him.\u201d I know he\u2019s lying. I also know that sometimes people who work in restaurants will take a quick photo of your credit card when they\u2019re processing your bill and then send the number to friends in another state. This makes the crime untraceable to the restaurant worker, and because people usually eat in the same zip code they live in, the fraudster has everything they need to use or sell a working credit card. \u201cLook,\u201d I say, \u201cthe police are onto the scam. And because it\u2019s across state lines the FBI are involved too.\u201d I\u2019m just making stuff up now, and I have no idea what scam I\u2019m even talking about. \u201cYou will not get another credit card number from any guys you know or don\u2019t know, okay? You aren\u2019t going to jail this time, but you could next time. And trust me, you don\u2019t want to go to jail.\u201d He hangs up. The next day I tell Doug I tracked down the name and number of the person who used his credit card for the wine basket. \u201cWe should tell the credit card company,\u201d he says. I call the company, but they just tell me to call the police. I don\u2019t call the police, though. I hope I scared the guy straight with my crazy phone call. I don\u2019t want to be blamed for the fraud, but I also don\u2019t want this guy arrested. He\u2019ll end up paying for that gift basket for who knows how many years, and I don\u2019t wish that on anyone. I tackled this gift-basket case like I was the love child of the CIA and the NSA, and I go to sleep feeling better. Not because I cracked the case, but because I am now using my powers for good. \n chapter 17 THE FOUR-MINUTE MILE Work becomes my new addiction. I have taken over the finances and the personal assisting, and, after we rewrite the book proposal and sample chapters, the doctor\u2019s memoir sells for far more than anyone had imagined. I become the agency\u2019s official in-house collaborative writer. When Doug tells me about another writing project he has for me, I reply, \u201cYou are crazy.\u201d \u201cNo,\u201d he says, \u201cI\u2019m not. You are the perfect person to help write this book.\u201d He\u2019s talking about The Book of Forgiving by Archbishop Desmond Tutu. I don\u2019t know the first thing about forgiveness. I know about forgetting, but nobody is publishing The Book of Forgetting. I am on probation. I am going through a divorce. I am hated by my community. I am the last person to help write a book about forgiveness. DJ is on a path of self-destruction and missed Kaden\u2019s last birthday\u2014just didn\u2019t show up for his party. I have no forgiveness in me right now. I want revenge, but revenge is reserved for people who aren\u2019t on probation. Plus, I have never cowritten a whole book before. The doctor had done a lot of his own writing, and I wrote bits here and there and reworded some of his prose. An entire book feels like too big an endeavor. In my MFA program I only had the patience for writing short stories, and those were short short stories. I have no idea where to begin. \u201cLet\u2019s make an outline of Arch\u2019s philosophy of forgiveness,\u201d Doug says. \u201cA blueprint that you can write from.\u201d He might as well be asking me to speak Mandarin. I\u2019m a fiction writer by training, and I\u2019ve never done outlines or blueprints. Some do, of course, but I\u2019ve never been able to comprehend how you can know the structure of something before you begin writing. I go along with the program, and we loosely sketch out each chapter, questions we need to ask Archbishop Tutu and his daughter Mpho about what forgiveness is and is not. Doug has worked with him before, and they\u2019ve been talking about this book since before I came to work here, so he has a clear idea what each chapter will be about. My job will be to put it all in beautiful writing once we get the content from the archbishop and Mpho, pull content from his speeches, and find the stories to illustrate the big ideas and each of the key points. The whole outline fits on one sheet of paper. On the back side, we list the four steps to forgiving that are going to form the structure of the book. These have been predetermined. \u201cThere\u2019s just one more chapter to figure out,\u201d says Doug. The whole process has taken less than an hour. \u201cWhat\u2019s the last chapter?\u201d \u201cThe chapter on self-forgiveness.\u201d I make a face at him. \u201cWhat?\u201d he asks, when I sit back in my chair. \u201cI don\u2019t know anything about that,\u201d I say. \u201cOf course you do.\u201d I watch him sketch out six key points for the chapter, and then he hands the outline of the whole book to me. \u201cYou can do this,\u201d he says. \u201cAll your experience in jail makes you the absolute best person to cowrite this book.\u201d I think about Daddy and Kiki and Officer Lonnie and Cassandra. Doug doesn\u2019t know any of my jail experiences, so it\u2019s a stretch for him to say that jail made me the best person to help write this book. But I know he\u2019s trying to hype me up, and I appreciate it. We schedule Skype calls with Archbishop Tutu and Mpho. Because of the time difference the calls are late at night. After Kaden goes to bed, I perch my laptop on my tiny kitchen table and try to angle the camera really high so the yellow fridge four feet behind me doesn\u2019t show. I take notes while Archbishop Tutu speaks, even though it\u2019s all being recorded for transcription. We talk through the outline and revise in real time. I can\u2019t believe Archbishop Tutu is actually in my tiny apartment talking to me. In seventh grade I had done a social studies report on apartheid for my favorite teacher, Mr. Miller. He encouraged me to write every day. I would sit in his class, hiding behind my Farrah Fawcett bangs, and then go home and write stories about all the history lessons he had taught. I wrote a story where I was a soldier in the Vietnam War who didn\u2019t want to fight. I wrote a story that took place during the Armenian genocide. But when we learned about Archbishop Tutu and apartheid, I had written a full essay and created a presentation with poster board and then given an impassioned speech that I was pretty sure would create fairness and equality in South Africa. Now I\u2019m on a video conference with the man himself, but I try to play it cool. Archbishop Tutu is kind and loving and wise and funny, and I pay close attention to his quirks of phrasing and his generosity of language. He is a formal speaker whose language is both precise and lofty. I\u2019ve agreed to do the book, mostly because I don\u2019t really have a choice, this is the job. But then I procrastinate. I don\u2019t call it procrastinating, though; I call it deprioritizing the writing part of the book. It\u2019s not due to the publisher for a year, so I tuck the outline away for as long as possible and instead write more questions for Archbishop Tutu to answer over Skype, and I research forgiveness stories, and I transcribe other talks and do lots of research into the science of forgiveness. When I finally start writing, the early chapters come together easily because I have so much material to work from, but the deadline for delivery is looming, and it\u2019s time to tackle the chapter on self-forgiveness and that\u2019s basically all new material for the book. I pull out the chapter outline and read it over again and then I tell Doug I\u2019m going to a coffee shop to write. The office is small, and Doug talks loudly on the phone, so he wishes me luck and waves me off. \u201cYou can do this,\u201d he says as I walk out the door. \u201cYou can write this chapter.\u201d I get to the coffee shop at 10 a.m. and settle in at a table that\u2019s big enough to spread out all my folders and transcripts. I feel important at my big table doing important work, but the blank screen in front of me is terrifying. I give myself an inner pep talk and glance at the clock. I decide I will not leave this coffee shop until the full chapter is written. I start doing calculations in my head. Twenty-five to thirty pages for the chapter, twelve hours until the coffee shop closes, two to three pages an hour, a page every twenty minutes. It all seems reasonable. I think of Doug\u2019s words: There is no such thing as writer\u2019s block\u2014if you are stuck, it just means you don\u2019t have enough information. I turn it into a game. If I finish three pages before the hour is up, I get to go on Facebook or play Candy Crush until the next hour starts. I race against time and figure I will just get a bad first draft down, and then Doug can edit and make changes. A bad something is better than a great nothing. I realize I trained for this in seventh grade, and I trained for this in jail. My confidence and energy increase. I don\u2019t always meet the one page in twenty minutes but I am close. I write all day and into the night about how you have to be willing to face the harm you\u2019ve caused someone, be willing to make amends, and accept that a person may choose to end the relationship even if they choose to forgive you. I only stop to go to the bathroom, buy more coffee, and check on Kaden who is being watched by Cody. The sound of chairs being put away registers as I type the chapter\u2019s last line. It\u2019s thirty-two pages long. I don\u2019t read it over, and instead email it to Doug with disclaimers about how rough it is and how bad it probably is and how we can revise. But inside I feel good. It\u2019s ten fifteen and I just wrote an entire chapter of a book in one day. A few days later, Doug meets me outside the office when I pull up. \u201cSit down,\u201d he says. We sit on the front steps. I can tell I\u2019m in trouble. \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d Doug looks at me seriously. \u201cWhy does something always have to be wrong?\u201d \u201cReally? Do you even know me?\u201d We both laugh, but I\u2019m still nervous. \u201cI read the chapter you wrote,\u201d he says. \u201cI know it needs work\u2026\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s fucking fantastic.\u201d \u201cReally?\u201d \u201cReally. I mean, do you know what you just did? It\u2019s like watching Roger Bannister break the four-minute mile. You just wrote a thirty-plus-page chapter in a day. That\u2019s not really possible. Only it is possible, and you did it.\u201d \u201cWow, I can\u2019t believe it.\u201d \u201cWell, there was one line I cut\u2014\u2018the hamster wheel of retribution\u2019\u2014that was a little much.\u201d I shrug and laugh. \u201cI thought it was clever, but I\u2019ll fix it.\u201d \u201cI already cut it and sent the chapter to Archbishop Tutu.\u201d \u201cWhat did he say?\u201d \u201cHe said we do a better him than he does.\u201d When I don\u2019t respond, Doug clarifies: \u201cHe loved it, he said to tell you he loved it. We still need to send it to Mpho.\u201d I am stunned and thrilled. \u201cYou know,\u201d I say, \u201cI was thinking it would be good to test out the forgiveness practices in the book.\u201d \u201cHow would we do that?\u201d \u201cWell, I could do them with a certain group of people who really need to learn about forgiveness and self-forgiveness.\u201d Doug thinks for a few seconds and then nods. \u201cThat\u2019s a great idea. We can see which practices really resonate with people. What\u2019s the group?\u201d \u201cThe Gemma Program. I can volunteer to do a course on forgiveness with the girls in jail.\u201d \u201cLara, I think that\u2019s a really good idea. For them and for you.\u201d Cynthia agrees with the idea as well. When I walk in the first day it feels surreal. Sandy, the social worker who was hired to run Gemma after I was fired, is warm and welcoming. I only recognize one girl from my time in G, but I can\u2019t remember her name. \u201cHi,\u201d I say. \u201cMy name is Lara.\u201d \u201cMama Love,\u201d the woman yells and laughs. I look around the room. \u201cThat was my nickname, and I\u2019m a graduate of the Gemma Program.\u201d This gets their attention. \u201cI work for a literary agency now, and I\u2019m working on a project called The Book of Forgiving with Archbishop Desmond Tutu and Mpho Tutu. Does anyone know who Archbishop Tutu is?\u201d Only one woman raises her hand\u2014an older woman of about sixty. \u201cWhen did you get out?\u201d another woman asks. \u201cAlmost four years ago,\u201d I say. \u201cI was the first one out on the work-release program.\u201d The women pepper me with questions about how long it took me to get a job, and did I have a home, and was I still on probation. I answer them all and confirm yes, I\u2019m still on probation. \u201cDoes the guy you\u2019re helping with the book know?\u201d \u201cMy boss knows, but Archbishop Tutu doesn\u2019t know. But he\u2019s an expert on forgiveness so I think he would be okay with it.\u201d I am sure this is true, but I\u2019m also sure that I don\u2019t want him or Mpho to find out. I don\u2019t want any of the authors we work with to find out. I\u2019m afraid of what they would think of me. I\u2019m afraid of them thinking less of me. I don\u2019t say any of this to the Gemma women, but instead tell them about Tutu and apartheid, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, and how mothers forgave the men who killed their sons. \u201cThe book has a lot of forgiveness exercises, prayers, and meditations that Mpho Tutu wrote, and I\u2019d like to try them out with all of you and have you tell me if they\u2019re helpful or not. That will help us decide what to put in the book.\u201d \u201cYou mean if we don\u2019t like them they won\u2019t go in the book?\u201d \u201cProbably not. They might try to improve them or find better ones. And if you\u2019re okay with it, some of the stories you share over the next six weeks might be used in the book. I would change your name, of course.\u201d The older woman raises her hand and asks softly, \u201cIf we wanted you to use our name, could you?\u201d I get choked up at her question because I understand everything she\u2019s not saying. \u201cOf course. If you want your name in the book, it will be in the book.\u201d There\u2019s only time left for me to read Mpho Tutu\u2019s opening prayer about forgiveness called \u201cThe Prayer Before the Prayer.\u201d I want to be willing to let go, to forgive. But dare not ask for the will to forgive, in case you give it to me And I am not yet ready. I am not yet ready for my heart to soften. I am not yet ready to be vulnerable again. Not yet ready to see that there is humanity in my tormentor\u2019s eyes Or that the one who hurt me may also have cried I am not yet ready for the journey. I am not yet interested in the path I am at the prayer before the prayer of forgiveness Grant me the will to want to forgive. Grant it to me not yet but soon Can I even form the words? Forgive me? Dare I even look? Do I dare to see the hurt I have caused: I can glimpse all the shattered pieces of that fragile thing That soul trying to rise on the broken wings of hope But only out of the corner of my eye. I am afraid of it. And if I am afraid to see How can I not be afraid to say: Forgive me? Is there a place where we can meet? You and me The place in the middle where we straddle the lines Where you are right and I am right too. And both of us are wrong and wronged Can we meet there? And look for the place where the path begins The path that ends when we forgive. Several of the women start to cry, and the moment feels bigger than this little room. After a few moments of silence, I break the tension. \u201cSo that one\u2019s a keeper then?\u201d I get the women journals, and for one hour a week for the next six weeks we meet and do the forgiveness exercises. The women are thrilled to be part of a book project, and I understand their thrill. It\u2019s the thrill of feeling like you matter. Like you are part of something bigger than your own sad story. The exercises on asking for forgiveness are hard, as is the discussion about how you have to tell the truth about what you did and then hear the truth about the harm you caused others. But the topic of self-forgiveness is the hardest, especially within a punitive system. The women are hard on themselves, guilty and ashamed and frustrated at the choices they\u2019ve made in life, and I advise them to forgive themselves so they can move on. I tell them that Archbishop Tutu says that telling the truth, witnessing the harm you\u2019ve caused, and asking for forgiveness, even if it\u2019s not given, is the path to freedom. It\u2019s the only way to not be bitter. To not hate yourself so you can have a fighting chance to be something beyond the worst things you\u2019ve done. I teach what I\u2019m not brave enough to do myself. Even out of the system, it\u2019s hard not to stew in the juices of punishment and feel like it\u2019s where I belong. When the book goes to print, I read the acknowledgments section and see Archbishop Tutu has paid tribute to me as his literary companion through many drafts and he calls me an aptly named genius with a heart of gold. It feels good to see my name in his book, to show it to my boys. Chapter by chapter, book by book, I am creating a new legacy to pass on to my children. I am the neighbor from hell in the newspaper, but I am also the person in the acknowledgments of the books I help create. I am officially a ghostwriter, and finishing any chapter feels like being high, only different. The edges are full of confidence, and that makes it nothing like the high of opiates, which were only outlined in glittery fear and false bravado. This feeling will return every time I finish writing a chapter for the next eight years\u2014a feeling I will chase like I used to chase drugs. My phone rings late one night. When I see Darcy\u2019s name on the caller ID, I quickly slip out of bed and go into the bathroom so I don\u2019t wake Kaden. I answer the phone with a question. \u201cAre the boys okay?\u201d \u201cWhat? Hi.\u201d \u201cAre the boys okay?\u201d I don\u2019t know why she\u2019s calling me so late, so of course I am assuming bad news. \u201cYeah, they\u2019re fine.\u201d \u201cOkay, good.\u201d I fall silent, and she does too. Over time, we have established a truce of sorts. We took a picture together when Cody graduated high school. We all went to dinner together the night before Dylan went off to study abroad in South Korea. It was easy to fall back into casual friendliness with Bryan; he doesn\u2019t have the attention span to hold a grudge. I am still wary of Darcy, though, and whenever we\u2019re all together, I end up feeling bad about myself. I told them about my job at Idea Architects in a voice I didn\u2019t like. I sounded hungry for their approval, and they looked at me in a way that made me feel like I was lying. I try to focus on the fact that Bryan and Darcy saved Kaden from foster care with strangers while I was in jail. But I still can\u2019t forget all the ways she hurt me when I was hurting. Darcy takes a deep breath, and I steel myself for another false accusation of some sort. I hate conflict, and especially late-night conflict. I am working on five books at once, and I need what little sleep I can get. \u201cI had therapy today,\u201d she says. I remain silent as I sit down on the edge of the tub and play with the snorkel and goggles Kaden likes to wear in the bath. \u201cMy therapist says you and I should hang out more.\u201d \u201cWhat?\u201d Darcy starts to cry. \u201cYou\u2019re the only one I can trust in Santa Cruz,\u201d she says. \u201cBryan is cheating on me.\u201d This news does not surprise me. The fact that I am the only one she can trust shocks me. \u201cI\u2019m so sorry,\u201d I say. I don\u2019t tell her that I suspected as much when I saw Bryan constantly texting during one of Cody\u2019s basketball games. There was a certain look of excitement mixed with chagrin that is Bryan\u2019s cheating face. \u201cBut you have lots of friends,\u201d I say. \u201cWhy does your therapist think I\u2019m the only one you can trust?\u201d \u201cBecause you\u2019ve been through this before, you know what I\u2019m going through, you\u2019re the only one who can understand. Besides, my friends here are his friends too.\u201d Darcy is from Boston, so all her real friends are far away. I don\u2019t know what to advise her. \u201cIt\u2019s hard,\u201d I say, \u201cbut you\u2019ll be okay.\u201d This makes her cry harder. I am in no position to be the therapist for my ex-husband\u2019s soon-to-be-ex-wife who I think may have tried to get me sent to prison. \u201cI can\u2019t get out of bed,\u201d she says. \u201cI\u2019m so depressed.\u201d I tune out while she sets forth the gory details of Bryan\u2019s affair. It\u2019s not my business, and I\u2019m no scientist, but I bet the research shows that when you marry a cheater, there\u2019s a good chance he\u2019s going to cheat on you. As a woman, I feel for her. As a person once married to her husband, I feel for her. A petty part of me clutches a bit of schadenfreude, but I set that aside. \u201cTry to sleep,\u201d I say. \u201cI\u2019ll call you this weekend.\u201d The next day I talk to Ty, who tells me she won\u2019t get out of bed. On Sunday, I call her. It\u2019s Mother\u2019s Day, which is a tough day for her anyway because she couldn\u2019t bear children of her own. She doesn\u2019t answer. I call Ty again; he says his dad is out, and Darcy is still in bed. I pack up Kaden and we make the short drive over to their house. I park Kaden with Ty, walk upstairs to her bedroom, and knock. A weak voice says, \u201cCome in.\u201d She is sitting up in bed. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. I quickly take in a pile of pill bottles and crumpled tissues on the nightstand. She looks like shit. \u201cHow are you?\u201d I ask. \u201cI brought you something.\u201d I hold out a coffee cup to her. \u201cIt\u2019s a mocha.\u201d \u201cThanks,\u201d she says. \u201cHappy Mother\u2019s Day.\u201d She starts to cry again, and I sit on the bed next to her with my own coffee. \u201cLook, I know it seems like the world is ending, but you can\u2019t just stay in bed. Ty said you\u2019ve been in here for a couple of days.\u201d \u201cI can\u2019t get up,\u201d she says. She sounds groggy, and I try to read the labels on her pill bottles without being obvious about it. \u201cIt\u2019s a beautiful day,\u201d I say. \u201cLet\u2019s go for a walk on the beach.\u201d She looks at me blankly, and I\u2019m surprised at my suggestion as well. I was just going to hand her a coffee and then slip out. But she\u2019s a mess. I was a mess too. Like recognizes like. \u201cCome on,\u201d I say, \u201cit\u2019ll be fun. It\u2019s beautiful outside.\u201d It\u2019s actually kind of cold and foggy but now is not the time for the truth. I stand up from the bed and hold out my hand. \u201cLet\u2019s go,\u201d I say. \u201cLet\u2019s just go for a walk. And Kaden\u2019s downstairs; he really wanted to wish you a Happy Mother\u2019s Day.\u201d That\u2019s another lie, but I\u2019m desperate enough to throw Kaden under this bus. I had to bribe him with the promise of Legos to get him to come with me. Darcy reaches for my hand. I want to feel the compassion I\u2019m faking, and when she stands up and stumbles a little, I suddenly do. I don\u2019t want to be a woman who kicks another woman when she\u2019s down. I want to be better than she was to me so she can be better than she was to me. Kaden doesn\u2019t want to walk with us, so we make our way to the beach alone. Darcy stops every few houses to tell me a Bryan story from when they first met, when they once took a walk here, when they were once in love. I just listen and hold space for the betrayal she\u2019s feeling. Bryan isn\u2019t a bad guy, and a part of me is surprised he lasted this long with the bitterness that\u2019s simmered between them for years, but I still support her as she complains about the unfairness of it all and repeats everything she already told me over the phone. We have just turned around to head back to the house. She\u2019s vented all there is to vent for now, so we walk in silence, and it\u2019s actually pretty nice. I haven\u2019t walked with a friend on the beach in years. \u201cI met someone,\u201d I offer. I\u2019m still wary of trusting her with personal information, but I want to build a bridge, and this is good gossip. \u201cWhat? Who? Tell me everything!\u201d \u201cHis name is Sam. He\u2019s great, but he\u2019s seven years younger than me, so I don\u2019t know\u2026\u201d \u201cBryan is seven years younger than me\u2026\u201d she says and then falls silent. We both know how that\u2019s turning out. \u201cI hope he\u2019s a nice guy,\u201d says Darcy before she starts crying again. \u201cI hope he is too,\u201d I say as I put my arm around her shoulders. Sam does seem like a nice guy; he drops coffee at my doorstep every morning on his way to work. He has two children from a previous marriage whom he dotes on. Since DJ, I\u2019ve tried dating two other men. The first lied to me about being almost divorced; in fact, he wasn\u2019t even separated. The other also turned out to be a liar, and when I broke it off with him, he threatened to call Probation on me. Both were men I met in recovery meetings who were supposed to be practicing the principles of honesty. I had sworn off dating and relationships forever, but then I saw Sam and he saw me. And I liked the person I was in his eyes. I liked that he seemed to love and adore me, but it was still new, and I hadn\u2019t yet told him much about the life I was struggling to leave behind. I told the boys to make Darcy breakfast before we left. When we return, we both climb into her bed, and the boys carry in our breakfast on matching wooden trays. I think about the boys coming to visit me at Blaine on Mother\u2019s Day. At the time, I was so happy to spend the day with them, I hadn\u2019t realized that my time with them meant Darcy had spent the day alone. But here we were years later, spending Mother\u2019s Day together with all four boys. Sometimes, the path of forgiveness doesn\u2019t look anything like we think it will. Sometimes it looks a lot like runny scrambled eggs and overly buttered sourdough toast. After breakfast, the boys take the trays away and I get up to leave. \u201cYou going to be okay?\u201d I ask. Darcy nods. \u201cYou know,\u201d she says, \u201cI never told you or anyone this, but I\u2019ve had my own struggles\u2026\u201d I think about her anger, her vitriol, her seeming delight at my failure. I think about her leading the mob in the courtroom, and it suddenly all makes sense. Maybe she hated me for all the complicated reasons we hate people who are more like us than we can admit. Or maybe she never hated me at all. Sam comes over later that evening, after Kaden is asleep. His kids are with their mom, and when I open the door he is standing there in his work boots holding a bouquet of flowers and a bunch of carrots. I tell him about my day with Darcy. And then I tell him about my Mother\u2019s Day in jail with the boys, my arrest, my time in jail, the newspaper headline, and Doug googling me. He doesn\u2019t say a word until I\u2019m done. \u201cThanks for telling me all that. I\u2019m sorry you went through it, but I think you\u2019re amazing. Your past doesn\u2019t matter to me.\u201d \u201cWhy?\u201d \u201cI only care about who you are now. And I can promise you one thing, I will never google you. I don\u2019t need to.\u201d How could I not fall in love with a man who refused to google me? A few weeks later, Darcy, Bryan, and I stand awkwardly together for pictures at Ty\u2019s high school graduation. At the dinner that night, Darcy gets drunk, and the tension between them overshadows the celebration. I yell at her for making the night about her rather than Ty, and then I immediately apologize. That dinner is the last time I see Darcy before she and Bryan officially separate and she moves back to Boston. I send her love and light and wish her well. I don\u2019t know what next year\u2019s Mother\u2019s Day will bring. I know I will gladly share my Mother\u2019s Day with the women in jail, with Darcy in her bed, and with whoever comes after her as stepmother to my children. I forgive Darcy and I hope she forgives me. \n chapter 18 A BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD Idea Architects has outgrown Doug\u2019s home office, so we relocate across the county and I move out of my chair and into a real desk. I am writing a book with a neurosurgeon, so early every Friday morning I drive to Silicon Valley and meet him at his office before he goes into surgery. On one Friday morning I accompany him to the hospital and change into scrubs so I can be in the operating room while he performs brain surgery. I ask him if I can keep the scrubs and when he says yes, I wear them often over the next two months while I work with him on the book. In the middle of this new book I\u2019m under deadline for, Sam and I decide to move in together and Doug rents us his house while he moves to a house closer to our new office. Neither Sam nor I want to get married again. Sam\u2019s only been married once, but I\u2019ve been married twice, and I don\u2019t think I have a third time in me. I\u2019m not Elizabeth Taylor. Although secretly a part of me at least wants Sam to want to marry me, plus I am curious about what it would be like to be married for ten years, twenty years, thirty years. But a larger part of me doubts I have it in me to stay married that long. I have never made it to five years before, so maybe I am Elizabeth Taylor. Kaden and I carefully pack up all his Legos and drive behind the U-Haul to our new home. It\u2019s a big change from our four-hundred-square-foot apartment, and I\u2019m excited and nervous. The new home is in a nice neighborhood and near the elementary school that Kaden and Sam\u2019s son, Chase, will attend. They are only a year and a half apart, and for the two years that Sam and I have been dating, they\u2019ve acted like they were at a slumber party whenever they were together. I hope that rapport will continue now that they\u2019re sharing a room. I am grateful he will now have siblings close to his age and a house full of company, instead of just me and my hypervigilance. Sam\u2019s daughter, Dahlia, will have her own room, and the house has an extra guest room for Dylan, Cody, and Ty to stay in when they want to. It\u2019s taken five years, but I finally have a home that can hold all my children. They\u2019re all out of high school now and Ty will be off to college soon after traveling post\u2013high school, but we\u2019ll have the holidays together. I love being a day-to-day mom again. I love setting the table for dinner, watching a movie together. When I have to sweep the floors and do the dishes I tell myself to be grateful I am doing these things in my own home and not in Blaine Street. Work keeps me busy, and I often pull one all-nighter a week just to keep up. But apart from the occasional brain surgery with an author, I feel like I have finally found the nice, conventional life I have longed for since my arrest. I didn\u2019t appreciate what I had before, so now I relish the domesticity of it all. The comfort, the security, the neighbors who wave to me when I drive by. Ty, Kaden, and I pick up take-out dinner a few days after we move in. It\u2019s a celebration, and we\u2019re in high spirits. I have just made the turn off the freeway at our exit when flashing blue and red lights appear behind us. I quickly pull into a parking lot. I know I\u2019ve done nothing wrong, but the terror is instantaneous. My body remembers my arrest, even if my mind knows not to worry. Ty seems unconcerned, and I glance over my shoulder at Kaden in the back seat. He is staring out the window. \u201cIt will be fine,\u201d I say. Ty moves to take his seat belt off, but I tell him to leave it on. Because we are in an unincorporated part of the county, a sheriff\u2019s deputy has pulled me over. I am grateful I don\u2019t recognize the deputy when he walks up to my window. I am grateful it isn\u2019t one of the two who arrested me, or one of the deputies who works in the jail. I remind myself that I am just a mom driving home from picking up takeout with her children. He shines his flashlight at the boys, and then stands next to my rolled-down window without saying a word. \u201cHi?\u201d I say, waiting to see why he pulled me over. \u201cYou have a taillight out,\u201d he says. \u201cOh no, I didn\u2019t realize\u2026\u201d \u201cCould I see your driver\u2019s license and insurance?\u201d I dig my license out of my bag and ask Ty to get the registration from the glove box. The deputy shines his flashlight in Ty\u2019s face again. \u201cIs this your son?\u201d \u201cYes,\u201d I say. Ty gives him a fake smile. Kaden hasn\u2019t said a word. He takes my license and registration and walks back to his car. A second deputy I hadn\u2019t noticed before stands behind my car. \u201cIt will just be a fix-it ticket,\u201d I say. \u201cNo big deal.\u201d Kaden is staring down at his lap. \u201cYou okay, baby guy?\u201d I ask. \u201cThere\u2019s nothing to worry about.\u201d I wonder if he\u2019s thinking about the last time he saw me with the police when I told him everything would be okay. Our dinner is getting cold. We\u2019ve been sitting in the car for close to twenty minutes, and the two deputies are outside the car talking when suddenly five more sheriff\u2019s cars pull into the parking lot, their sirens blaring and lights flashing. Two of them pull in front of our car, blocking our way forward. The other three line up behind and around the car that pulled us over. Two officers get out of each car and stand at the back of my car. Ty is starting to look nervous now, and Kaden still hasn\u2019t uttered a word. The deputy comes back to the window. \u201cYou\u2019re on probation. You don\u2019t have any violations, but we\u2019ve called your probation officer.\u201d \u201cFor a burned-out light?\u201d The only reason I\u2019m still on probation is the fact that I haven\u2019t been able to pay the remainder of the restitution back yet. \u201cWe have the right to search you and your car, but we\u2019re waiting to hear back from your probation officer.\u201d \u201cYou can search my car,\u201d I say. \u201cWhat?\u201d \u201cI\u2019m fine if you search my car, you don\u2019t have to wait for him to call back.\u201d The deputy seems surprised at this. He walks back to confer with the other ten officers who have assembled to deal with our broken light. Another deputy walks up to the car and asks us to get out. Ty opens Kaden\u2019s door and I grab the bag of Chipotle so at least we can eat. \u201cLeave everything in the car!\u201d Apparently they need to search our dinner. Ty, Kaden, and I sit on a curb in the flashing lights while they pull everything out of the glove box and the trunk. My backpack gets dumped on the hood of the car while three deputies shine their flashlights under the seats, between the seats, across the dash, and inside the car doors. I am scared and embarrassed, but mostly I\u2019m worried about Kaden. He has climbed into my lap and buried his ten-year-old face in my neck. He is shivering even though the night is warm. I rub his back. \u201cIt\u2019s okay, Boodle,\u201d says Ty, using his favorite nickname for his little brother. After another twenty minutes, the original deputy walks up and hands me my documents along with a fix-it ticket for the light. \u201cYou know we could impound it for the broken light.\u201d I don\u2019t reply and he looks at me like he\u2019s waiting for me to thank him. But I feel no gratitude and say nothing. I feel only anger at this man, and all his buddies, and the system he represents that could ruin my happy, hard-won life over a five-dollar taillight. \u201cYour probation officer said you\u2019re good to go. That\u2019s quite a record you have.\u201d I don\u2019t have to check in with Probation anymore; I just file a monthly report online. So I\u2019d almost forgotten that I can still be sent back to jail for anything at any time. I had thought about homeschooling Kaden earlier in the year but found out I can\u2019t because I have a record. I am ghostwriting a book for two Stanford professors, but I can\u2019t homeschool my son. We gather up all our stuff and put the car back together as quickly as possible after the deputies leave. The sirens, the flashing lights, the six sheriff\u2019s cars\u2014it all feels like intentional overkill. Do I look that dangerous sitting in a car with my two children and a bag of Chipotle? They knew when they looked me up that I had never violated probation for five years, but still they acted as if I had just robbed a bank and was driving the getaway car. \u201cLet\u2019s just order pizza,\u201d I say as we head home. When I tell Sam what happened, he\u2019s angry with the police on my behalf. I try to explain to him how scared I am every day that people will find out about my past, but he doesn\u2019t get it. \u201cWho cares?\u201d he asks. \u201cWhy does it even matter?\u201d He has never been arrested, never gone to jail, and he can\u2019t seem to understand the terror that lives right under the surface of my happy life. I can\u2019t sleep that night. At 2 a.m. I get out of bed and decide to check my email. There\u2019s a note from Doug saying our next-door neighbors are upset with him for renting to me without talking to them first. A friend of another neighbor, someone I know from recovery meetings, gossiped about me, and now all the neighbors know the neighbor from hell has moved next door. \u201cLet\u2019s discuss in the morning,\u201d writes Doug. \u201cBut I told them I\u2019m free to meet on Saturday.\u201d When Sam gets up for work at five, I am sitting at the kitchen table. \u201cWhat\u2019s up?\u201d he asks. \u201cBobby told the neighbors across the street about my past and he told another neighbor who told another neighbor. And now Zack and Karen are upset and want a meeting to discuss it with us and Doug.\u201d I start to cry. I should have stayed in my little apartment with Kaden. \u201cWe don\u2019t have to defend where we live to anyone.\u201d \u201cDoug wants us to all sit down and talk.\u201d \u201cNo way,\u201d says Sam. \u201cFuck the neighbors. You\u2019ve been in this neighborhood, this house, all day every day for years working with Doug, and they haven\u2019t had a problem.\u201d \u201cUntil Bobby made sure they knew my past.\u201d \u201cFucking Bobby,\u201d says Sam. \u201cIsn\u2019t he supposed to keep things anonymous?\u201d I just shrug. \u201cWill you go to the meeting with me and Doug?\u201d I ask. \u201cOn Saturday?\u201d Sam is quiet for a moment, and then he says no. In a way I\u2019m relieved. I don\u2019t want him to witness my humiliation. \u201cI disagree with the need to meet on principle, and there\u2019s no way I\u2019m going to give them the satisfaction. You do not have to defend your past. Besides, I have to work on Saturday.\u201d I\u2019ve never been able to make Sam understand the burden I carry. Going to jail, the newspaper headline, probation\u2014it\u2019s all a secret I keep from everyone I know except him and Doug and my family. In Sam\u2019s mind, the past is past; it has no bearing on our present or future. I appreciate this Tolle-level detachment, but it also makes me feel alone as I face my next hurdle. The prospect of this meeting makes me fearful and nervous. Doug shows up at the house full of his usual energy and goodwill. Zack and Karen have set out a fruit plate, and we sit awkwardly at their kitchen table. \u201cLisa and Will didn\u2019t want to come to the meeting,\u201d they say, referring to the neighbors across the street who spread the gossip. \u201cWill objects to it. He says you can live where you want to live, and it\u2019s not our business. Obviously, we understand his point but disagree that it\u2019s not our business. Doug, you should have told us before you rented the house.\u201d Doug smiles. \u201cWell, actually I didn\u2019t need to do that. And you\u2019ve known Lara for years now. It never crossed my mind to tell you. We trust Lara with our home, our business. Besides marrying my wife, the best thing I\u2019ve ever done is hire Lara.\u201d My eyes fill with tears. Karen and Zack nod in some kind of agreement with Doug\u2019s sentiment, but they still ask to hear my story. I tell them I have many years in recovery but go silent after that. I don\u2019t know what to say. I am suddenly exhausted, and I realize Sam is right, I don\u2019t need to defend myself. I shouldn\u2019t have to defend myself. Doug steps in and tells them I committed identity theft and went to jail but how responsible I am now. \u201cGiven my job, you can understand my concern,\u201d says Zack. I don\u2019t know what he does for a living, and Doug seems to have forgotten as well. We both look at him, puzzled. \u201cI do cybersecurity,\u201d he says. \u201cObviously, identity theft is a big part of what I fight every day.\u201d I\u2019m not going to steal his identity. I\u2019m too busy working at my job assuming the identities of our authors and writing their books. \u201cYou have my word,\u201d says Doug. \u201cThere will be no problems whatsoever\u2014Lara is a perfect neighbor.\u201d Karen and Zack seem dubious but say okay, as if they are being magnanimous in letting me live where I live. Before we leave, they both backtrack on the whole meeting and remind us of how committed they are to social justice issues. I tune them out. I want to go to my new home in my new neighborhood and cry. We say our goodbyes, and Doug emails me the next morning: How are you \u201cthe morning after\u2026\u201d? Hope you are still feeling that the meeting went as well as I did. I hope you will feel at home in the new neighborhood, and I do feel that going through experiences like this and the kind of honesty everyone shared yesterday deepens relationships significantly. I send a smiley face emoji back, but as I walk Kaden to school on Monday the neighborhood doesn\u2019t look as shiny and hopeful as it did the week before. Not long after, Sam and I are sitting in the backyard enjoying a Saturday night at home without the kids. Dylan, Cody, and Ty have taken Kaden on a road trip to Oregon for the week. It\u2019s a rare summer night without fog, and I feel content. It\u2019s a feeling I\u2019m still not a hundred percent comfortable with but I\u2019m trying. Sam starts to say something and then stops. He seems nervous, and my contentment leaves as I brace myself for whatever shoe is about to drop. \u201cWhat?\u201d I ask. \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d \u201cNothing\u2019s wrong.\u201d I wait him out, thinking suddenly that he\u2019s about to break up with me. I start to ponder how I\u2019m going to pay the rent myself, and vow never to get in a relationship again. In an instant, I play out our entire breakup and I\u2019m surprised at how much it hurts, how much I really do love him. \u201cWill you marry me?\u201d \u201cYou want to marry me?\u201d I ask. \u201cYou want to get married?\u201d \u201cI do.\u201d \u201cBut why? You said you never wanted to get married again.\u201d \u201cI want to marry you, I love you, can you please just answer the question?\u201d Sam is laughing now. \u201cI want to marry you, too, so yes, the answer is yes!\u201d Sam howls at the night sky. I jump up and throw my arms around him. We kiss, and he howls again, and I don\u2019t care about the neighbors next door and what they\u2019ll think, or how I\u2019ve failed at marriage in the past. All I know is that I love him and he loves me, and it feels so good to feel chosen. We make plans to get married the following June and spend the fall and winter planning a big wedding. One night in March, as we\u2019re about to go to sleep, I tell him I can\u2019t see our wedding. \u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d \u201cI mean, I know we\u2019re making these plans, but I don\u2019t see it. I don\u2019t see us at this big wedding, and you know how I am\u2026 If I can\u2019t see something happening it never happens.\u201d Sam is quiet for a moment. \u201cPlus, I hate the word venue,\u201d I add. \u201cIf someone asks about our \u2018venue\u2019 one more time, I\u2019m going to lose it on them. It\u2019s a horrible, horrible word.\u201d \u201cDo you want to marry me still?\u201d \u201cOf course,\u201d I say. \u201cWhat if we elope?\u201d We already have a wedding party, and people helping us plan the wedding, and Sam\u2019s parents would be devastated. Plus, I want the boys at our wedding. Eloping seems impossible. Sam sits up in bed. \u201cLet\u2019s just do it. The day after tomorrow. We\u2019ll take a long weekend. Just us. We can do a party later with the family.\u201d It feels so wrong, but also so right. Planning a wedding in a day feels way easier to me than planning a wedding over a year. We try to sneak off, but twenty-one people, including Dylan, Cody, Ty, and Sam\u2019s parents, decide to elope with us on a day\u2019s notice. It\u2019s crazy and chaotic and fun and perfect. On our wedding night Sam and I stand at the window of our hotel room looking out at the lights of Reno, Nevada. \u201cI hope you know how special this is,\u201d I say. \u201cOf course I know. I love you, Mrs. Lara Love Hardin.\u201d \u201cNo,\u201d I say. \u201cThis is the first time I\u2019ve gotten married without getting pregnant first. This is a big moment in a girl\u2019s life.\u201d Sam looks at me in silence for a moment, and then we both laugh. I have begun a marriage with laughter, and I take this as a good omen. \n chapter 19 THE DALAI LAMA HATES ME Doug decides to sell his house, and Sam and I find a rental home a few blocks from where I used to live with Kaden. It\u2019s hard to find a place to rent that has enough room to fit all the kids, takes a dog, and doesn\u2019t require a criminal background check. I barely have time to unpack in our new place before I\u2019m on my way to India to work on The Book of Joy with Doug, Archbishop Tutu, the Dalai Lama, and other members of our growing company. We have moved into even bigger offices, and I was excited for the business trip of a lifetime. No one else at our company knows about my past. None of the many authors I have written books with know about my past. I keep my secret and pray daily that our authors don\u2019t find out. I am constantly worried that if people know, it will hurt our reputation as a literary agency and that will somehow torpedo the business. Maybe I am overreacting, but I don\u2019t want to find out. Mostly I am just constantly ashamed, and I also don\u2019t want people to see me through the lens of being a felon. Am I smart, or am I just smart for a criminal? Am I a good writer, or am I a good writer for someone who was an addict? I also manage the company\u2019s money, and I don\u2019t want my honesty and integrity to be questioned. Yes, I keep the secret to protect the business, but I also keep it to protect myself. Two of the books I have cowritten had become New York Times bestsellers\u2014I am Idea Architects\u2019 secret weapon, and I guard my secret past like I used to guard my drug addiction. Secrets are a lonely place to live, though, and I can\u2019t imagine making new friends. There are too many gaps in my life story that don\u2019t lend themselves to long, getting-to-know-you talks. I don\u2019t want to feel like I am lying to anyone, even by omission. And I am too ashamed to think about telling the truth. I can\u2019t face the horror I imagine crossing the faces of people who might find out my secret. I worry about people judging me because I am constantly in judgment of myself. I work on a book where the authors cite research that shows how having close female friends is a huge predictor of a woman\u2019s health and longevity. The more female friends a woman has, the better. My takeaway from this is that lonely old me is going to suffer a miserable early death if I don\u2019t make some friends, but I am afraid to try. So I work day and night to clear my karma, and prove that I am good because I do good work. I\u2019m not really worried about being judged in any afterlife, just in the one I am living. I\u2019m still on probation because I haven\u2019t paid the restitution back in full. I apply for my passport and my visa, not knowing if they\u2019ll get approved. I do research on whether foreign governments do background checks on visa applicants; some do and some don\u2019t. My visa for the trip to India is denied at first. I had written \u201cWriter\u201d as my profession, so I reapply and change my profession to \u201cSecretary\u201d and it gets approved. I don\u2019t have time for feminist outrage because the logistics of bringing an entire team to the Dalai Lama\u2019s house are all-consuming. I am excited and nervous but mostly excited. I reach out to a friend from my early soccer-mom days who is a devout Buddhist and follower of the Dalai Lama. Over tea, she gives me a crash course on how to behave with monks. \u201cYou\u2019re a woman, so they won\u2019t shake your hand or touch you,\u201d she says. \u201cThat just makes me want to shake their hands so I can pull them into the twenty-first century.\u201d \u201cPlease don\u2019t.\u201d \u201cHis Holiness sees everything,\u201d she says. \u201cHe has this way of knowing you because he can look right into your soul. Listen carefully when he speaks. He will tell you exactly what you most need to hear.\u201d I don\u2019t like the idea of the Dalai Lama mucking around in my soul, rummaging around like a girlfriend going through her boyfriend\u2019s drawers when he\u2019s not home. Mostly I\u2019m afraid of what he might see in there. I worry that he will blow my cover. \u201cIt\u2019s really special that you get to do this,\u201d says my old friend, Kate. \u201cUsually it takes a lot of merit to have an opportunity like this.\u201d I shrug, unsure how to address my merit or lack thereof. \u201cWell, it\u2019s my job, and I know it\u2019s an amazing opportunity,\u201d I say eventually. \u201cHmmm\u2026\u201d says Kate, looking at me suspiciously like I\u2019m passing counterfeit merit. We talk about the travel and what India is like, and Kate shares her stories from Dharamsala and elsewhere. Her work as an educator is based on the Dalai Lama\u2019s vision for children. I haven\u2019t seen her since my older boys were in a Buddhist preschool with her kids. At the time, we were part of a close-knit group of moms. I\u2019m grateful to her for giving me so much of her time and expertise after all those years. At the end of our tea, Kate tells me that most of our old friend group is coming over for a game night at her house. I get excited at the thought of seeing my former best friends. And I love game nights. I realize how much I miss having friends\u2014how much I miss this group of friends in particular and being in a large group of women in general. It\u2019s the one thing I miss about jail. \u201cThey\u2019ll be here soon,\u201d Kate says. I nod enthusiastically and give her a big smile. She stands and picks up our teacups. \u201cSo you\u2019ll probably want to get going now. I can\u2019t believe it\u2019s gotten so late.\u201d \u201cOh, of course.\u201d My face flushes, and I hug her awkwardly. \u201cOne more thing,\u201d she says. \u201cYeah?\u201d \u201cDid you ever steal Pali\u2019s traveler\u2019s checks?\u201d Pali is her daughter. \u201cN\u2026 n\u2026 o,\u201d I stammer. \u201cOkay, then,\u201d she says. In the days leading up to the trip, I alternate between worrying about my merit, which I learn is another word for karma, and what the Dalai Lama might see when he looks in my soul. When I\u2019m not worrying about my soul, I also fantasize that when he meets me for the first time he will instantly recognize me as special. He will see me as good. Or he will see me as bad. My fantasy life is very flexible. Andrew, my colleague, and I are flying business class to India and I\u2019m terrified. As he orders champagne, I imagine being arrested or turned back. I\u2019m afraid of what will happen when I show my passport to enter the country. Will the system light up with bells and sirens? I\u2019ve gotten permission from Probation to leave the country, but I haven\u2019t gotten permission from India to enter as a person on probation. Andrew doesn\u2019t know that he\u2019s traveling with a felon, and probably wouldn\u2019t care if I told him, given how much champagne he\u2019s had, but my anxiety gets worse as we proceed across the Pacific. When we stop to change planes in Hong Kong, I have my first true flash of excitement. Even if I get turned around in India, I am now someone who changes planes in Hong Kong, and that feels like a win for the women in G. We are meeting up with a film crew in New Delhi and going early to set up for the dialogue between Archbishop Tutu and the Dalai Lama. Doug will be interviewing them along with Thupten Jinpa, the Dalai Lama\u2019s longtime translator, and all will be filmed and transcribed into content for the book Doug will write with them and possibly for a film. My job includes all things logistical: scouting with the film crew, coordinating hotels and guests, making sure everything goes as planned, reviewing the questions Doug is going to ask each day, and general crisis management for the entire team. So far, I am the only one in crisis. The ultimate goal is to take the outline Doug and I created with Jinpa and get enough content during the week to fill a book. When we land in Hong Kong for our connecting flight there are two flight agents outside the gate holding signs with my name and Andrew\u2019s on them. I panic and turn back to reboard the plane. \u201cMs. Love?\u201d I turn around slowly and nod. \u201cWe have rerouted you to New Delhi. The headwinds caused you to miss your connection so now you will travel to Bangalore, go through immigration, and then transfer to another flight to New Delhi. Follow us, please.\u201d While Andrew snores, I spend the flight from Hong Kong to Bangalore wondering what prison is like in India. When we land, the immigration line moves quickly, and my throat goes dry when the officer asks me the purpose of my visit. \u201cWork,\u201d I squeak out. I can see him noticing my nerves, but he shrugs and stamps my passport. When the time comes for me to meet the Dalai Lama, I prepare my mind with only good thoughts so he doesn\u2019t go looking into the corners of my dark past. My heart is pounding as he makes his way along a reception line of sorts. I am so ready for my big moment, for him to gaze into my eyes and clear the room so we can talk. When he gets to me, he glances at me and nods slightly. And that\u2019s it. That night I join Doug and Archbishop Tutu and some dignitaries for dinner in Dharamsala. I sit next to this man who I wrote about in middle school, and as we share delicious Tibetan dumplings called momos he thanks me for the work I did on The Book of Forgiving. Doug takes a picture of us sitting together, and later that night he texts it to me. In the photo Archbishop Tutu and I are holding hands and looking into each other\u2019s eyes. Doug has caught us in the middle of laughing about something. I lay in bed too excited for the week ahead to sleep, and I look at myself in the picture. I look like the shiny, happy person I have always wanted to be. Only this time I\u2019m not pretending. The joy on my face is real. The dialogues go off without a hitch. His Holiness invites us to meditate with him in his private residence. It\u2019s an honor to be part of the entourage in his sacred space, and as I sit to his left on the floor and join him in his morning meditation in front of his personal shrine, I feel like I am levitating. Look at me now, Eckhart Tolle. As we sit, my eyes meet Doug\u2019s. We stare at each other for a moment, and he gives me a smile. He knows how far this room in Dharamsala is from where I\u2019ve been. I tear up and smile back. I am overcome with gratitude, for Doug, for Archbishop Tutu, for the Dalai Lama, for the strange life that has taken me from G block to this holy space. I did not hustle or cheat or defraud my way into this room\u2014I was invited and welcomed. What if this is my merit? I roll the idea around in my head and when Archbishop Tutu leads us in prayer and offers me the Eucharist, I take it. When he bows his head to me and murmurs a blessing, I bow my head, too, and think about the times I prayed in jail. On the floor of the holding room the night of my arrest when I prayed for help, and with the chaplain when I prayed to never do drugs again and to know my path and purpose. Here, with the Eucharist melting on my tongue, my prayer is simple: thank you. I still spend the rest of the week convinced that the most compassionate man in the world doesn\u2019t like me, because he never singles me out for attention like he does other members of the crew. Either he hates me, I decide, or maybe he is teaching me a bigger lesson. There is the old part of me that is sure that he hates me, but the new part of me, the part that grows with every book I work on and every difficult moment I face, thinks it must be a lesson. I am just one of seven billion people living their lives. Making big mistakes over and over. Growing and shrinking and growing again. In the evenings I walk around the temple grounds, monkeys chattering in the trees, and the lesson becomes clear: It\u2019s easier for me to think the Dalai Lama doesn\u2019t like me than to face the fact that deep down, despite where I am and who I\u2019m with, I\u2019m still not sure if I like myself. Spending a week listening to Archbishop Tutu and the Dalai Lama alternate between teasing each other for not acting holy enough, and then crying over the profound suffering that is the human experience, changes me. Every day I walk away with some new nugget about the way I want to live my life\u2014in service to others, accepting that I am always a work in progress, being more compassionate and more forgiving. Living in gratitude. Every day of the dialogues seems like a horoscope\u2014there\u2019s something specific relating to my life that I need to hear. The two holy men see the possibility of joy in every hard moment, and I want to live like that. They listen to each other deeply, and reach out to hold the other\u2019s hand when someone tells a difficult story from their life. His Holiness is curious about everyone filming them: the photographer\u2019s red hair, the sound guy\u2019s tattoos, the cameraman\u2019s beard. Even though it\u2019s a joke, when the Dalai Lama says he would rather go to hell than heaven because there are more people to help in hell, I start to cry. They pause midway through each morning so everyone can stop work and drink tea together. The tea isn\u2019t great, but the communal pause feels like another profound lesson. These men, who have both carried the fate of countries on their backs, have a lightness I crave. They teach me not to take myself too seriously. When His Holiness says all people are equal, no one is higher up or better than another, I feel like he is saying this just to me. Each night, after my walk, I go to my hotel room in Dharamsala in the shadow of His Holiness\u2019s temple, and I write down what I saw and how I felt and who I still want to become. On our last day we do a photo shoot with Archbishop Tutu and His Holiness. Miranda, the photographer, clicks away as, one by one, members of the team receive a special khata, a blessed Tibetan scarf from the Dalai Lama, and pose for pictures. When it\u2019s my turn, I am nervous to be standing between these two men, and a bit flustered. My security badge is tangled up with my khata and both are tangled in my hair. His Holiness takes my hand, and our eyes meet. His hands are softer than any skin I have ever felt before, softer than any baby I have ever held. Then he holds his hand up to Miranda to stop the shoot. This is it, I think, this is my moment. He has seen my soul. I hold my breath to see what will happen next, and he starts fussing with my hair. Untangling the khata and the security badge and freeing my hair. Smoothing it down, putting me back together again. Miranda takes photos of it all, and I know I will look at them on the nights when the world questions my merit. When I question my merit. Standing between these two spiritual leaders, it suddenly doesn\u2019t matter what people think of me. I am standing in the light, at a temple, in service to something bigger than my insecurities and flaws. Bigger than my past and my mistakes. Before I walk away, each man holds one of my hands and I tell them both, \u201cThank you. You have changed my life.\u201d When I turn to leave, His Holiness grabs my hands again and slowly bows and touches his forehead to mine. I close my eyes, and we stay that way for a few seconds, or maybe a lifetime. \n chapter 20 MANY LIVES Doug spends the next year writing The Book of Joy based on the dialogues in Dharamsala, and I work on a relationship book about the eight conversations you should have before you marry someone. I never had any of these conversations before any of my marriages. I am also writing a book called Designing Your Life that publishes on the same day as The Book of Joy. Both books hit the New York Times bestseller list. I am ecstatic and proud, and all the hard work and sleepless nights feel worth it. Each literary accolade is like money in the bank to me. A savings account I use as leverage against other parts of my life that are not as successful. I am still on probation even though it should have ended two years ago. To get me off probation, Elizabeth and I go back to court. She argues with Probation, saying that I had gone above and beyond during my incarceration and on probation and I should be let off and allowed to pay my restitution as I can over time without the threat of going back to jail hanging over my head. She tells the judge that Designing Your Life is number one on the New York Times list. I think she is trying to show I have a valid job and also prove I\u2019m a valuable member of society now and will not walk away from my debt. The judge does not seem that impressed. I hate sitting on the bench outside the courtroom waiting for the judge\u2019s ruling. I feel automatically guilty. I can taste jail in my mouth\u2014rusted metal and locked doors and the bitterness of isolation. Before I was locked up, freedom used to feel like a vague, blurry concept and a given privilege, about as easy to pin down as wind. Now I understand freedom in the way you can only understand something when it\u2019s gone. Even out of jail, as long as I\u2019m on probation, I\u2019m still not free. The judge gives me the choice to either stay on probation until restitution is completely paid or make my restitution payments to a county collection agency and get off probation. The judge wants to make sure I understand that the latter option will ruin my credit. Elizabeth starts to argue, but the judge stops her. She looks at me and shrugs. There\u2019s just no way they are going to let me off probation without some penalty hanging over me. The choice is roughly equivalent to declaring bankruptcy, and it will keep my credit rating abysmally low for seven years. Choosing between two bad choices is never easy, but I choose door number two. Bad credit seems better than living while holding your breath. Probation has turned my one-year sentence into a seven-year sentence, and now I have to add another seven years of bad credit. But I take this trade-off in order to sleep in peace. The irony is that probation was originally invented as an alternative to incarceration. In the mid-1800s a man in Boston convinced a judge to let him keep another drunken man in his care so he could rehabilitate him before sentencing. When the State of New York introduced probation in the early 1900s, one of the magistrate\u2019s arguments for creating a probation system was that it could be \u201cpunishment without disgrace, and effective without producing embitterment, resentment or demoralization.\u201d Disgrace, embitterment, resentment, and demoralization is just another Monday in the modern world of probation. And if it was hard for me to navigate all the conflicting requirements and illogical bureaucracy as a white, educated woman with some social support, how difficult was it for others without the same sort of opportunities and privilege? Late at night I sometimes read through the jail arrest logs, so I know when Kiki is back in, and the same for Spider, Vivian, and Nina. The only women I don\u2019t see rearrested are the ones who went off to prison. I send care packages to them through the commissary\u2014chocolate bars and bear claws and ramen. I know the money should go to paying back my own restitution, but this is a different kind of restitution. These strangers saved my life and lifted me up with their friendship when I was at my lowest. I owe them. Meeting the Dalai Lama and Archbishop Tutu and all the other authors I get to interact with every day makes me feel valuable, but so did these women. The difference is, I could be honest with these women. Living a covert life, whether for good or bad, takes its toll. If I am only as sick as my secrets, well then, I am in hospice. And I have had enough. Not enough to tell my secrets, but enough that I have decided I need to move away from this place I have lived for the last twenty-five years. I\u2019m going to work my ass off and save enough money to pay my restitution and move far away. I want to go live in Hawaii, on an island thousands of miles away from this community where I no longer belong. I tell Doug this stretch goal. \u201cI need to save up enough money\u2014Kaden graduates in 2023 and then when he goes off to college I\u2019m going to move to Hawaii. I can work remotely.\u201d \u201cIs that what you really want to do?\u201d \u201cYes. I want to build a big family compound for all my boys\u2014a place where they can come home to, a place where if they have families one day they can bring them. And when I die it will be theirs to share and create memories in. \u201cI\u2019m tired of running away from things,\u201d I say. \u201cI want to run toward something. And that something is Hawaii.\u201d \u201cSo, if I\u2019m understanding you correctly, you want to run to Hawaii?\u201d I laugh. \u201cYes, exactly. Someday I\u2019m going to run all the way to Hawaii.\u201d \u201cIf that\u2019s what you want, then I support you in doing that, and you have job security for life. I want us to work together until we are a hundred years old. We are peanut butter and jelly. Lennon and McCartney,\u201d he says. \u201cRide or die,\u201d I reply. I\u2019m trying to make Doug more \u201cstreet\u201d and he flashes me a sideways peace sign in response that makes me laugh. With every new book I write I get to be a different person, live a different life. I want that same freedom in my real life. I hope I can find it in Hawaii, and I hope I can bear the weight of my secrets until I get there. \u201cLara, will you tell Bryan about your past?\u201d Doug asks. I choke on my scrambled eggs and take a sip of water. The number one rule of fight club is I don\u2019t tell our authors about my past. Doug is to my right at the small table in a hotel restaurant in Montgomery, Alabama, across from the offices of the Equal Justice Initiative. Bryan Stevenson, one of the country\u2019s leading social justice activists and lawyers, and one of the authors we represent, sits across the table, and we\u2019re catching up and having a nice breakfast before meeting Anthony Ray Hinton for the first time. Hinton had spent thirty years on Alabama\u2019s death row for a crime he didn\u2019t commit. We flew to Alabama at Bryan\u2019s request, to meet Mr. Hinton and potentially help him with his book. I want desperately to be his cowriter. I take a deep breath. Montgomery\u2019s air is humid, thick with its history of slavery and oppression and the fight for civil rights. I wasn\u2019t prepared to talk about my crimes, my incarceration, my shame, and my work with others in recovery and incarcerated women who are reentering society. But I understand why Doug has asked me to share my story. While almost a year in Santa Cruz County Jail doesn\u2019t compare to thirty years on death row, I know the pain of being alone. I know the sound of a door closing that you have no power to open yourself. I know about being judged. I know Ray before I\u2019ve even met him, and I know that of all the books I\u2019ve worked on, this is the book I was meant to do. And Bryan knows me as a competent member of the literary agency that represents him; he doesn\u2019t know the many lives I have led before this breakfast until I finish my story. He doesn\u2019t judge me. He shows compassion and kindness and understanding and says how relieved he will be to have someone working with Ray who has knowledge of the criminal justice system. And when I meet Ray, we hit it off instantly. He doesn\u2019t trust easily, but he trusts me because I have been locked up. He was innocent, and I was guilty, but we share an understanding of captivity that transcends our differences. We walk side by side behind Bryan and Doug on the sidewalks of Montgomery. \u201cHow much time did you do?\u201d he asks. \u201cJust a county year,\u201d I say, and he knows the reference. \u201cI\u2019m glad you understand,\u201d he says. \u201cI bet you didn\u2019t think a middle-aged white woman would be helping tell your story.\u201d Ray laughs. \u201cNo, I can\u2019t say that I did, but I\u2019m glad it\u2019s you.\u201d My mother dies a week after I get back from Montgomery. I had moved her to Santa Cruz and taken care of her financially and physically for the past two years while an extremely aggressive form of dementia\u2014Lewy body dementia\u2014changed her into someone unrecognizable. My mother, once so smart and aloof and vain and sad, had become childlike. I had become her mother. And in the last weeks of her life, I had to put aside all our history and be present for her in a way she could never be present for me. Ray, whose mother died while he was on death row, comforts me long distance in my grief. When I say I don\u2019t have the words for grief, for regret, and I worry whether I did the right thing in her last days, he tells me to write about it. \u201cI did,\u201d I say. \u201cI wrote a little each night for the last week of her life.\u201d \u201cRead it to me,\u201d he says. I am embarrassed to read what I have written. It\u2019s a jumble of random thoughts and my attempt to make meaning out of something horrific. I need to work on Ray\u2019s book proposal, but my mother\u2019s death fills me with a feeling of loss that I can\u2019t reconcile with our disconnected relationship. Ray insists it will help me feel better, so I read him what I have written of the past week. Ray is silent for almost a minute after I finish reading. \u201cYou were there for her,\u201d he finally says. \u201cOn death row, you die alone. In prison, you die alone. In prison you can\u2019t be with the ones you love as they are dying. You were there. You weren\u2019t locked up. You took care of her while she passed; be grateful for that.\u201d Ray is right. It is the first of many lessons he will teach me about gratitude and freedom. \u201cI walk every day simply because I can,\u201d he says. \u201cI eat dessert first because I don\u2019t ever want to be too full to enjoy something sweet and delicious. \u201cI stand in the rain because you never know when you won\u2019t be allowed to feel the rain on your skin. I don\u2019t ever worry about the weather.\u201d I listen to him carefully and the week after my mom dies, I write three sample chapters and his entire book proposal in a few days. Doug submits the proposal to editors, and all those interested in publishing Ray\u2019s book meet with Doug and Ray in New York City. I stay home and anxiously wait to hear how it all turns out. Ray gets a fantastic book deal and before we start writing the book, Doug has me listen to all the meetings he recorded in New York about the book so I can hear the different editors\u2019 ideas for the structure of the book. There are lots of great ideas, but I\u2019m most attuned to the line Doug says to every editor in every meeting when they ask who is going to be helping Ray write the book. \u201cDo you know how hard it is to find an MFA who has been incarcerated?\u201d Doug asks every editor after telling them I will be the coauthor. \u201cI didn\u2019t know that about Lara,\u201d says one editor. \u201cHow wonderful\u2026\u201d My biggest secret, my greatest shame, has become a selling point. And that changes everything. Over the next year Ray and I spend lots of time working together on The Sun Does Shine. We mix our pain together, and we pour it on the page, and we become family. He trusts me with his story, and I trust him with mine. I learn so much about hope and gratitude and faith and friendship from Ray, and I pour everything I have in me into his story. When I write about how alone he felt on death row it helps me touch how alone I felt in jail, and some days I am on my office floor crying because through Ray I am able to tap so deeply into grief and loss that I\u2019m not sure who I am crying for or who I am crying as, but it doesn\u2019t matter. Other days I am so full of the goodness of Ray\u2019s soul that the writing comes quickly and lightly. This innocent man who spent thirty years on death row teaches me as much about forgiveness as Archbishop Tutu. They both suffered and they both let it ennoble them rather than embitter them. \u201cI forgive,\u201d Ray says, \u201cbecause I\u2019m not giving the State of Alabama one more second of my life.\u201d I try to adopt this worldview and apply it to myself. Bryan and Ray know about my past, so I bravely tell another author I work with before I work with her, and she doesn\u2019t run away from me screaming. I take these baby steps, and then I pause to see if the world will come crashing down. When it doesn\u2019t, I take a deep breath and contemplate my next step. For my birthday, I decide to try something I\u2019ve always wanted to do but was too terrified to try: improv. I think of myself as an introvert so being unscripted on a stage feels like a nightmare, but there\u2019s an equal part of me that loves to entertain and make people laugh. I show up for a drop-in adult improv class on a Saturday morning. It\u2019s an eclectic mix of ages and personality types, and as nervous and terrified as I am, it is fun. It\u2019s been so long since I played, since I acted silly, since I lived in the moment without carefully scripting all my interactions with others. This tribe of misfits and theater geeks and artists and writers welcomes me warmly. They invite me out to lunch after class. And so every Saturday morning, I put aside work and fear and hypervigilance, and I stand on a stage saying ridiculous things and laughing for two hours. I have found my tribe, my people, and not one of them knows about my past. When improv becomes the gateway drug to a stand-up comedy class, my new tribe comes to watch me perform my routine. Alone on a small stage I say, \u201cSo this one time when I was in prison\u2026\u201d and I do a routine about my felonies and how someone gets a prison nickname and how a woman made a tiny candy shiv out of a Jolly Rancher. Afterward my new friends come up to me and say, \u201cIs that true? Were you in prison with thirty-two felonies?\u201d Because I have learned to be in the moment from improv class, I reply immediately in the time-honored improv style. \u201cYes, and\u2026 it was jail, not prison.\u201d There is silence at first, but before I can even get mortified, my new friend Eileen says, \u201cCool.\u201d The others follow with similar responses, and we all go to lunch where I am not the center of conversation. And my definition of freedom gets bigger. I thought what I craved was approval and praise, but it\u2019s simpler than that. I craved acceptance. For all the different versions of me I have been, and all the many lives I have lived. I am riding the comedy wave with my tribe, and it\u2019s such smooth sailing that when a local Rotary Club asks me to come speak to them about my work, I readily say yes. They don\u2019t mention my past, and I am excited to talk about our literary agency and the impact our books are having in the world. Our team has grown so much that with our foreign rights coagents, staff, and the collaborative writers I have hired and trained, we number close to thirty staff now. Ty is working full time for our company as well, and Cody is creating videos for us, so my success is also their success. The work is nonstop, and I go to the office on a Saturday morning. I am getting a contract out of Doug\u2019s inbox when I see the email. It\u2019s from: one@victimoflaralove.com. I open the email and read: SHAME ON YOU FOR PUTTING THIS VILE PERSON IN CHARGE OF FINANCIAL THINGS. THE COURT HAD BANNED HER FROM BEING IN THAT KIND OF FUNCTION AND YOU ARE BOTH VIOLATING THAT. I WILL BE CONTACTING THE D.A. AND COURTS. The sender has included a link to the Sentinel article\u2014I guess in case Doug didn\u2019t know about my past. The panic attack hits me right away. I can\u2019t control my breathing, and my office seems to have tilted. I want to run but I can\u2019t feel my limbs. All I can think is I\u2019m going back to jail, and so is Doug. I call him, and when he answers I am hysterical and incomprehensible. \u201cSomeone sent you\u2026 in your email\u2026 trouble\u2026 jail\u2026\u201d \u201cTake a breath,\u201d says Doug. \u201cAre you hurt? Are the kids okay? Sam?\u201d \u201cYes, but someone sent an anonymous email.\u201d \u201cWhere are you?\u201d asks Doug. I can\u2019t control my crying, and I can hear the fear in his voice, but it\u2019s like I\u2019m listening from underwater. Everything is muffled and removed. \u201cOf\u2026 fff\u2026 ice,\u201d I stammer. \u201cStay right there,\u201d he says. \u201cI\u2019m on my way.\u201d I sit on the couch under shelves of all the books we\u2019ve created and realize none of it matters. None of it changes a thing. Doug charges into the office like he\u2019s going to battle, and I start crying all over again. \u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d I say. \u201cI\u2019m so sorry.\u201d \u201cThere\u2019s nothing to be sorry for. You\u2019re not going to jail. I\u2019m not going to jail.\u201d I hear what he\u2019s saying, and I know he\u2019s being logical, but all I can think of is that my worst fear has come true: My reputation has ruined his reputation. Doug, who has never broken a law in his life, done a drug, been anything but kind and good, is now being threatened with jail. \u201cLet\u2019s go for a walk,\u201d he says. I blindly follow him out of the office, and we walk away from the downtown area of Santa Cruz. I don\u2019t feel safe outside. I don\u2019t feel safe inside. As we walk, I keep looking over my shoulder, sure that the police are going to pull up any moment and take us both away. When Doug stops in front of the bank where we do business, I follow him inside without question. If he wants to get a little banking done while I\u2019m having a meltdown, who am I to judge? We approach Gustavo, who handles our accounts, and Doug greets him warmly. \u201cListen,\u201d he says. \u201cI want to add Lara as a signer on all our business accounts.\u201d Gustavo looks at me and I know I look like hell, but I smile weakly. This is Doug\u2019s way of showing me how much he trusts me. \u201cI meant to do this a long time ago,\u201d he says. \u201cI just never found a moment where we were both free at the same time. Today is the perfect day.\u201d The paperwork appears in front of me and I sign. Back at the office, Doug makes sure I am okay before he leaves. \u201cThis is nothing to be worried about,\u201d he says. \u201cThe person who sent that email is a coward. If someone was concerned, they could just call me.\u201d I nod. I know he\u2019s right, and I\u2019m a bit embarrassed that I thought we would both go to jail. When he leaves, I call Eileen. Besides being my new best friend, she used to work for the NSA. I tell her about the email, and she goes to work trying to trace it with some computer magic. The closest she gets is an address. I look it up online, and it is a business park with multiple offices. I leave the office and drive to the address. If someone is threatening me, I want to know who it is. I slowly drive by each business in the lot. A sign shop, an accounting office, a boat supply company. I google each business trying to find out the owner\u2019s name. Is it one of my old neighbors? I don\u2019t recognize any of the businesses. I don\u2019t know any of their owners or employees. I try to think about what could have triggered this email seven years into my job at Idea Architects, nine years after my arrest. And then it hits me. I agreed to give a public talk about my work as a ghostwriter. I search out the Rotary Club that invited me and see that they have just announced me as a speaker. For years I have lived under the radar, and then I forgot. The person who sent this email must be a member of the Rotary Club. I call the woman who set up the speaking event and leave her a voicemail. \u201cI\u2019m so sorry,\u201d I say, \u201cbut I won\u2019t be able to speak at your event after all. Something\u2019s come up.\u201d Logically I know I can\u2019t go back to jail now that I\u2019m off probation, but this message about my past triggers me. This hatred from the community triggers me. For every two steps forward, I take one step back. Or maybe it\u2019s the other way around. The only difference now is I don\u2019t have to walk alone. I have Bryan Stevenson and Ray Hinton and Eileen and Doug. I have Sam and my children. I have my comedy friends. They love me, they trust me, and I try to tell myself that it\u2019s enough to keep me safe. \n chapter 21 REAL POWER I\u2019ve had lots of imaginary conversations with Oprah Winfrey. I used to watch her talk show every afternoon. I laughed when she laughed, cried when she cried, and imagined myself sitting on a couch with her. Reading was escape, and so was Oprah. Ray and I are at Book Passage in Corte Madera, California. I\u2019ve come to see him while he is on his book tour. The moms whose game night I couldn\u2019t join at Kate\u2019s house before I met the Dalai Lama have now invited me to join their book club. I gave them all my advance reader copies, the early versions of the book reserved for reviewers, and they\u2019re also in the audience here, clutching their early copies. The bookstore\u2019s owner is distressed at seeing the review copies in their hands. \u201cYou\u2019re not supposed to have those,\u201d she says to them. I step in and point to my name on the cover under Ray\u2019s. \u201cIt\u2019s okay,\u201d I say. \u201cThose are my copies, and these folks will still buy the hardback version tonight.\u201d Dylan and Eileen are also with me, and it feels like a great event. Ray is on fire as he shares his story, and there\u2019s not a dry eye in the house. After the event, we only have a little time to catch up before he\u2019s whisked off to another event in a different city. I am in the office the next day when Ray calls. \u201cHellooooo,\u201d I say. \u201cThat was such a great event last\u2026\u201d \u201cLara!\u201d He\u2019s whispering. \u201cWhat?\u201d I ask. \u201cAre you okay?\u201d He clears his throat. \u201cI\u2019m hiding in the bathroom at my hotel. They are setting up for an interview outside the door so I have to be quiet.\u201d I\u2019m still confused. \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d \u201cNothing\u2019s wrong. She called me, Lara.\u201d \u201cWho called you?\u201d \u201cOprah! Oprah Winfrey just called me. She told me it was Oprah, and at first I didn\u2019t believe her.\u201d \u201cReally?\u201d I ask dubiously. Ray is known for playing jokes, so I don\u2019t know if he\u2019s teasing or not. \u201cShe picked the book, Lara. She picked The Sun Does Shine for her book club. I\u2019m not supposed to tell anyone, but of course I\u2019m calling you right away. This is our book. But you can\u2019t tell anyone, you can\u2019t tell anyone.\u201d \u201cNot even Doug?\u201d \u201cNot yet. She told me I can\u2019t tell anyone.\u201d I want to say \u201coh my God\u201d or \u201choly fucking shitballs,\u201d but Ray is a man of faith who never curses, so instead I just scream. \u201cI\u2019m so happy for you, Ray! So many people are going to read your story now. This is absolutely amazing!\u201d \u201cI have to go do this interview, but I will call you tonight.\u201d I want to laugh and cry and scream. This is the first Oprah pick for our agency. The first book where my name appears on the cover as a coauthor. This is Ray, one of my dearest friends, and a man who has experienced more injustice than just about anyone I know. I want to dance and shout and tell everyone the news, but I can\u2019t. I sit with the news for three hours. I can\u2019t concentrate on work, and all I want to do is call Doug. I want to tell him as a friend. I want to tell him as his business partner. And I want to tell him because he\u2019s Ray\u2019s agent, and he should know. But Ray trusts me, and I gave him my word. Mostly I just want somebody to celebrate with. I am just about to give in and tell Doug when a flurry of emails come in from Ray\u2019s editor and the publicity and marketing people at his publisher. Oprah has officially picked the book, and we all have to sign nondisclosure agreements and keep it secret for a couple of months. I call Doug immediately. \u201cDid you see your email?\u201d I ask. \u201cNo, what?\u201d \u201cRead your email and call me back,\u201d I say and hang up. I realize then that he might think it\u2019s another threatening letter so I quickly text him: IT\u2019S GOOD NEWS! He calls back within seconds and we scream into the phone. I call Ray back and tell him that Bryan, the publisher, and Doug have all been informed. When the publisher explains to us that it could be months before the official announcement because they have to order enough paper to meet the demand for books once the news is out, the significance of this news sets in. I\u2019m invited to go to New York City with Ray for the live television announcement on CBS This Morning, hosted by Gayle King. Despite growing up in Boston, despite working in publishing, I have never been to New York before. I can\u2019t tell anyone why I\u2019m going so I just say it\u2019s for work. Dylan is in New York on a business trip, so we spend two days together before he has to leave. Ray, his best friend Lester, and I are all staying at the same hotel. Doug is also joining us at CBS but is staying with his family. We all meet for breakfast before the car arrives to take us to the studio. Our editor, George Witte, meets us there and we all walk in together. The entire morning feels surreal, but it\u2019s real. And it\u2019s fucking fantastic. Ray is going to be live on air with Gayle King and Oprah, and I\u2019ll be in the glass-walled greenroom on set where Lester, Doug, George, and I can all watch the action in real time. Ray is calm as can be while my heart pounds. Once we get settled, Lester and I are sitting next to each other on the couch facing the set when I look up and see Oprah looking in at us. Behind her looms an image of the book\u2019s cover that takes up the entire wall. The title, Ray\u2019s name, and then my name below his. Oprah gives a little wave. I wave back. I stare at her in real life and feel vindicated, because in my mind anything Oprah approves of the culture approves of. And Oprah approves of me. Ray is doing so well with his interview that they keep him on for an extra segment. He comes back to the greenroom and we hug, and I tell him he absolutely killed it. Before he can reply, Gayle and Oprah walk in. Ray introduces me to Oprah. Tells her I am his writer. \u201cHi,\u201d she says and gives me a big smile. \u201cHi!\u201d I have nothing more eloquent to say in her presence. \u201cYou did a great job,\u201d she says. \u201cYou are an incredible writer.\u201d And that\u2019s it. I can die now. My life is complete. \u201cDo you want to take pictures?\u201d she asks. Gayle and Oprah, both in yellow, flank me on either side and Doug snaps away with his phone. I am smiling so huge I must look like my head will burst. It\u2019s all a whirlwind because Gayle has to get back on the air for her next segment, and Oprah has to go be Oprah. We\u2019re just about to leave when an assistant to Oprah comes in and invites Doug and me to lunch with Oprah and Gayle and Ray and Lester. I am about to be someone who lunches with Oprah. We have an hour to kill before lunch so the four of us wait in the lobby. I have dozens of messages and emails from people who see the show. The news is out. The restaurant we are going to clears the back half because it\u2019s Oprah. The manager takes me through first. \u201cIs this table okay?\u201d he asks nervously. I look around the room not knowing exactly what I\u2019m looking for. In jail, you never want to sit with your back to the door. Oprah is the ultimate shot caller, so I pick a table to the side, so she can see all the entrances and exits. At lunch I am seated to her left, and when the waiter comes to take our order, Oprah points to Ray and asks the waiter if he knows who he is. \u201cNo, sorry.\u201d \u201cYou will,\u201d says Oprah. \u201cYou want to know him. And you will.\u201d She orders champagne for the table, and we toast to Ray. \u201cI\u2019m going to go stand on Fifth Avenue and hand this book out to every person who walks by,\u201d she says. \u201cIt\u2019s going to be a bestseller!\u201d The lunch is lively, and everyone is in a great mood. Doug and Gayle and Ray and Lester are engaged in some conversation that I\u2019m not tracking because I am sitting next to Oprah. She has been making little side comments to me on the bigger conversations all throughout lunch. I hang on every word\u2014the ultimate fangirl. She tells me she loves the book, and that her team didn\u2019t want her to pick it because she had just picked a book about someone incarcerated. \u201cBut you know what I said?\u201d she asks. \u201cNo, what?\u201d \u201cI said, \u2018Do you see your name on this company? No, you don\u2019t. That\u2019s my name, and this is the book we are going to do.\u2019 And they read it, and I was right.\u201d She leans toward me and whispers, \u201cThat\u2019s power, Lara, that is real power.\u201d I recall telling Daddy that real power is quiet power. And I smile at Oprah as she toasts the table, and I think maybe real power isn\u2019t always quiet. Maybe real power is saying things out loud and owning your own story like you own a company or a network or a magazine. Real power is putting your name on things. Real power is about using your power to shine a light on other people so they can find their own power. A crowd has begun to gather outside the restaurant. I listen as Oprah schools me about power, Doug about movie deals, and Ray about managing his money and what to do when cousins of cousins come out and want him to pay their bills because he is famous. With each person she has a way of speaking their exact language. It\u2019s a gift. A powerful gift that gives her the kind of power Daddy couldn\u2019t even imagine. I look around this table, this restaurant in New York City, this unlikely lunch party, and realize that I have no idea what I want to do next. Life is strange and heartbreaking and wonderful, and it can change on you in an instant. I have been so many different people in my life\u2014wife, mother, real estate agent, Little League coach, school board member, lover, fighter, addict, felon. I have done good things, and I have done bad things. I have been so many different people in the books I\u2019ve ghostwritten, and worn so many different hats in my job, just to keep myself busy and striving. And during all of it, there was always this desperate undercurrent of me trying to prove to the world that I\u2019m valuable and worthy, more good than bad. I realize suddenly that I\u2019m tired of pretending I am anything other than who I am. People may love me or hate me, praise me or criticize me, reward me or punish me. All I can be is who I am now, and then work hard to become the person I most want to be. I\u2019m tired of hustling for an approval even the great and powerful Oprah can\u2019t really give me. I know what I\u2019m looking for can only be found on the inside, and it\u2019s going to be my job to keep finding it over and over. By the time we finish lunch, The Sun Does Shine has become the number one best-selling book on Amazon. Ray and I take this in on the car ride back to the hotel, both of us sitting side by side in silence at first. \u201cWe did it,\u201d he says. \u201cWe did it, Ray, we really did it.\u201d And then we look into each other\u2019s eyes and laugh and I start to cry. Neither of us has the words to convey how this feels. We were both somewhere else and now we\u2019re here. Together. He leans toward me and I meet him halfway across the seat and we embrace. Ray was once a condemned man on death row, and I was once in jail with a sheet wrapped around my neck. Now we are both number one bestsellers. Twenty-four hours later I am back home, doing laundry, sweeping dog hair off the floor. Lunch with Oprah already feels far away. The entire flight home I replayed the lunch and Oprah\u2019s words. I know I have a lot more inner work to do. I thought I had to convince the whole world that I am more than the worst thing I have done, the worst person I have been, but really I just have to convince myself. Now that I have brushed up against Oprah, old friends I haven\u2019t spoken to since before my arrest call me and gush. People want to get together. People want to have lunch. People want to know how I am. It all feels hollow, though. I don\u2019t want a community to welcome me just because Oprah made me valuable again in their eyes. I don\u2019t want any friendships that are shallow or conditional. I want real relationships. Real friends. Real community. And, I realize, I don\u2019t want to divorce Santa Cruz. I want to stay and make it work. Hawaii is a beautiful place to visit, but I don\u2019t want to banish myself to an island. Soon after I return from New York, Sam, Chase, Kaden, and I go to Hawaii for a vacation. I didn\u2019t want to live there anymore, but I did want to visit. We go straight to the beach from the airport, and Kaden and Chase are boogie boarding while Sam and I watch from the sand. The swell picks up out of nowhere, and suddenly the waves are huge, and the sets are relentless. Chase rides his board in, but Kaden is struggling. The waves are crashing over him and pulling him farther from shore. It is like one of my natural-disaster nightmares I\u2019ve had since my arrest\u2014where my boys are being pulled away from me and I can\u2019t reach them. Only this is real. As if in slow motion, I see the lifeguard jump out of his tower and run into the ocean, with Sam running right behind him. Everyone on the beach stands up to watch. Another swimmer is trying to reach him as well. Three powerful swimmers who all know the ocean are trying to save him while I can only stand on the beach and watch. Only I can\u2019t watch. I can\u2019t even breathe. I turn away, turn my back on the ocean and on Kaden. I am a coward. I am weak. I am afraid. I only look away for a few seconds before I force myself to turn back and stand witness to my youngest son\u2019s struggle to survive. Sam, the lifeguard, and the other man have hold of Kaden but they\u2019re all fighting the waves to get to shore. At least he isn\u2019t alone. I stand on the sand in the sun and face him and will them all to come in safely. The old me would have hid my fear from him, but when he makes it onto the beach I run to him. I wrap my arms around him and burst into tears. \u201cAre you okay? I\u2019m so glad you are okay. I was so scared. Oh my God.\u201d He is shaking and he hugs me back, but then quickly lets go. \u201cI\u2019m fine. I\u2019m okay.\u201d \u201cI couldn\u2019t watch,\u201d I say. \u201cI was so scared, and I turned away because I couldn\u2019t watch. I\u2019m so sorry I did that.\u201d I start to cry even harder, and as a crowd gathers around us, he gets frustrated. \u201cIt\u2019s okay,\u201d he says. \u201cLet\u2019s just go! God!\u201d I\u2019m embarrassing him even more than a public beach rescue. I quickly gather our things from the beach and we walk to our rental car. Sam opens the back for us and puts the boogie boards in, and then he and Chase get in the car. Kaden and I stand at the open trunk and I fold him in my arms again. He rests his head on my shoulder. \u201cI love you,\u201d he says. \u201cI was so scared.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m sorry, baby guy. I was so scared too. I love you so much.\u201d We hold each other like that, sandy and afraid, but together. \u201cIt\u2019s okay,\u201d I say. \u201cYou\u2019re okay. We\u2019re okay.\u201d I have been watching Kaden for signs of trauma ever since his year away from me. When he was in first grade, he told me he had a secret he couldn\u2019t tell me and I panicked, thinking it was something horrific, some abuse from his nights in foster care before Bryan and Darcy had taken him. I begged Dylan, Cody, and Ty to try to get the information out of him and tried to steel myself for the bad news. It turned out he had kissed a girl on the cheek. Every day I inspected him for any places where I had broken him, and year after year, even though I didn\u2019t find any outward signs, I was prepared for his trauma to manifest in some big way. Just when I start to think that we\u2019ve escaped unscathed, almost overnight, he is hit with crippling anxiety. He suddenly thinks he is going to be kidnapped. He is afraid to be home alone, afraid to sleep without a flashlight aimed at his door, afraid even to walk downstairs and get water on his own. He stops hanging out with friends, he doesn\u2019t go outside, and his fears overwhelm him. I immediately take him to therapy, to an anxiety coach, to EMDR treatments. I buy him herbal stress remedies. I try everything, and still he is afraid. I don\u2019t know if it is just puberty hormones, a phase, or if it\u2019s the beginning of mental health issues he will struggle with for a lifetime. This anxiety is real and tangible and stronger than something that can just be cured through a mother\u2019s love and attention. It\u2019s something unseen and unknown, and nothing I try seems to help. I feel guilty and powerless. I want him to feel safe, and no matter what I say or do, he simply doesn\u2019t. We talk about his anxiety often, and he keeps telling me we need to move. We\u2019re still renting the only home that hadn\u2019t required a background check when we left Doug\u2019s house, and finding another such rental seems impossible. But Kaden is insistent. He starts to email me real estate listings. \u201cWe can\u2019t buy a house,\u201d I say. \u201cWhy not?\u201d \u201cWe don\u2019t have the money you need to put down on a house. Homes are so expensive here, it\u2019s impossible.\u201d When I tell Doug about Kaden\u2019s anxiety and his wanting to move, Doug is sympathetic. \u201cMaybe you should listen to him.\u201d \u201cI can\u2019t afford to buy a house. I have nowhere near the kind of down payment money I would need.\u201d \u201cYou could borrow the money against your profit share in the business.\u201d \u201cSeriously?\u201d \u201cSeriously.\u201d Sam and I make a list of everything we want in our dream house. Bedrooms for the kids, an office for me, outdoor space for the dogs, a workshop for Sam. We describe this imaginary place to each other and ask Kaden, Chase, and Dahlia what they imagine in their dream home. A week later a friend of a friend tells me about the house she is selling. It is on seven acres and has everything on our list. This is right before Halloween, and by Thanksgiving we are set to close escrow. I have never owned a home, and when Sam and I go to sign the paperwork, I realize that this thirty-year mortgage isn\u2019t just a whole new level of financial commitment, it\u2019s also me committing to being a stable, income-earning, non-drug-using, stay-out-of-jail, gainfully employed type of person for the next thirty years. I\u2019m going to be someone\u2019s permanent neighbor. This is going to be my permanent home. It feels so much bigger than just a new house\u2014there\u2019s a weight to it that I take on. A week after we move in, I can\u2019t find Kaden anywhere in the house and I panic. \u201cSam, Kaden\u2019s gone!\u201d \u201cHe went for a walk with the dogs.\u201d \u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d I am incredulous. \u201cI mean, he\u2019s walking. Outside. With the dogs.\u201d After nine months of his not being able to go downstairs alone, I can\u2019t believe it. I am waiting for him when he gets back. \u201cHow was your walk?\u201d I ask. \u201cAwesome.\u201d \u201cHow did you sleep last night?\u201d \u201cGreat!\u201d \u201cHow\u2019s the anxiety, then?\u201d I sound anxious when I ask this, so I say it again more nonchalantly, and he laughs. \u201cI told you we just needed to move. I\u2019m fine. Stop freaking out all the time. Jeez.\u201d It is such a normal fourteen-year-old thing to say that I laugh, and when he rolls his eyes I laugh harder. At Christmastime all the boys and their friends converge on the new house. We are sitting around the dining room table laughing and I think about being in G and imagining a home with sunlight and happy faces. It\u2019s taken a decade but this, I realize, is that home. And it didn\u2019t just help Kaden\u2019s anxiety\u2014it helped heal mine as well. As long as I keep showing up every day in my life, no one can take this home away from me. There is no other shoe that is going to drop. I have all my boys with me, and this home is all I have ever wanted\u2014safety, sanctuary, and joy. All I\u2019ve ever really wanted is a place to call home, and now I have it. Kaden and I are both growing up. And for the first time, I really believe we are each going to be okay. \n chapter 22 THE WORST THING I HAVE EVER DONE I\u2019ve obviously lost my mind. It was easy when I was high on Oprah and New York City to decide to own my story and stop caring what other people think, but it\u2019s another thing to step out on a stage and actually rat myself out. Plus, I\u2019ve had no time to prepare. We\u2019ve had an author in town all week, so I\u2019ve had no time to rehearse or memorize what I\u2019m going to say or how I\u2019m going to say it. The theme of this TEDx is hope. I hope I don\u2019t throw up. I was also hoping Doug would talk me out of it at the last second. \u201cA lot of our authors still don\u2019t know my past. People might be upset.\u201d \u201cLara, I will say what I\u2019ve always said. If people don\u2019t want to work with us because of your past, we don\u2019t want to work with those people.\u201d \u201cI know, but\u2026\u201d \u201cLook, if you\u2019re not ready, you can back out. A bad TED Talk is worse than no TED Talk.\u201d This gets my competitive edge up, as he knows it will. \u201cI can do it,\u201d I say. \u201cI just need a couple of hours to practice what I want to say so I don\u2019t embarrass myself while I\u2019m humiliating myself.\u201d Doug laughs. A year earlier I had gone to see a shaman and she told me she needed to do a soul retrieval. \u201cWhat does that mean?\u201d I asked. \u201cSometimes a part of our soul fractures off. It can happen in early childhood or during trauma. I can go in and retrieve it.\u201d I still didn\u2019t completely understand, but if I had left pieces of my soul lying around I wanted to pick them up. I was ready to be whole. During the ceremony or procedure or whatever it was that had me lying on a table while she shook rattles over me, she told me that before I was born into this life, my soul made a contract. \u201cWhat was the contract?\u201d \u201cI\u2019m not sure exactly what this means, but maybe it will resonate with you.\u201d \u201cOkay,\u201d I say. \u201cWhat contract did I make?\u201d She looks at me and gives a little shrug. \u201cYour contract was to be on a stage as no one.\u201d \u201cWhat does that mean? Is that a good thing or a bad thing?\u201d \u201cYour contract is what you agree you\u2019re here in this lifetime to learn\u2014it\u2019s always something hard.\u201d \u201cWell, can I break it?\u201d \u201cOnce you\u2019ve learned what you\u2019ve needed to learn, you don\u2019t need to break it. You\u2019ve fulfilled the obligations of that contract. It can end.\u201d I think about the secrets I had been keeping, my ghostwriting, my addiction, my lying, my loneliness\u2014all the things that had kept me feeling removed from myself, from life. I was done being on a stage as no one, I was done living in shame, and I was done living under the shadow of the worst person I had been. I was ready to be on a stage as me. So for almost fourteen minutes I stand on a stage and tell everyone who wanted to listen exactly what I was so afraid they would find out. I was once the neighbor from hell. And then I tell them about some other people I have been. I ask everyone in the audience to think about the worst thing they had ever done, and then I ask them to tell it to the person to their right. The audience gasps, and that feeling behind the gasp is exactly what shame feels like. I am done living in shame. I talk about how high the barriers are to rejoining society after incarceration, and how much harder it becomes under the weight of gossip and judgment. I am telling myself what I most need to hear. That I\u2019m human, and humans make mistakes. I no longer live in fear of the \u201cNeighbor from Hell\u201d headline. I own it and say yes, that\u2019s who I was for a moment, for a season of my life, but it\u2019s not who I have always been nor who I have become. That headline has no power over me anymore. It won\u2019t shut me up or shut me down. For the first time in over a decade, I google myself. The headline doesn\u2019t immediately pop up. It\u2019s still there. It will always be there. But now you have to click through a few pages in the search results, and this feels right. For the first time since my arrest, I drive past my old house. Around the cul-de-sac where neighbors and friends stood gawking as I was taken away in handcuffs. My former front yard is full of plastic toddler toys. The fence DJ and I built is sagging, but it still stands. As I drive through my old neighborhood, I wait for my heart to race and my chest to constrict. I\u2019m on the lookout for an angry mob. I watch for the shame and fear to flood my body. They don\u2019t. In the end, it\u2019s just another house in another neighborhood. And behind every front door is a family made up of people with their own struggles, their own secrets, and their own fear and shame that someday those secrets will be found out. So yes, I was once the neighbor from hell. I have also been a dozen different people in a dozen different books. I have lived many lives and will hopefully live many more. But for now I am just myself. I have done lots of good in my life, and I have also done lots of bad. One doesn\u2019t negate the other. And the truth is, I don\u2019t believe the worst thing I have ever done is found in the stealing or lying or drug abuse. The worst thing I\u2019ve ever done is build an identity out of the worst thing I\u2019ve ever done. I\u2019ve condemned others for not being able to see beyond my past when I was the one who couldn\u2019t see beyond my past. There\u2019s no doubt that our \u201cjustice\u201d system is broken. There\u2019s no doubt that as a society we ask people to pay far beyond what their criminal sentences ask of them. It\u2019s a truth we all need to examine. Because how we take care of broken people matters. Fundamentally, I believe, it determines our own humanity. And we don\u2019t just sentence someone to a year or five years or ten years\u2014we turn every sentence into a life sentence. Every sentence is a life sentence. I believe the best thing that ever happened to me was going to jail. I am a better mother, a better friend, a better worker, and a better writer because of my experiences. I\u2019ve been a liar and a truth-teller, selfish and selfless. I\u2019ve been smart and stupid. I have hated myself and learned to love myself. I have hustled for my self-worth\u2014looking for it in the things I owned, in other people\u2019s love and approval\u2014but I have come to accept it as fundamental regardless of what I do or don\u2019t do. There is freedom in owning all the parts of me\u2014the good, the bad, the ugly, and the beautiful. I made the conscious choice to create an identity out of the worst things ever said about me, and now I choose differently. It was always my choice. I eventually become co-CEO of Idea Architects, but then in 2022 I leave to start my own literary agency. I name it True Literary because I want to create something wholly true to me, to my vision for books and stories that will make the world a better and kinder place for everyone. It sounds a little cheesy, but I think, as the Dalai Lama would say, it\u2019s my dharma\u2014that I\u2019m finally living my soul\u2019s purpose. I think often about what Oprah told me about real power\u2014and my takeaway was that it\u2019s not only having your name on the door but using your power to shine a light on other people. I will always have a soft spot for the underdog, the ones living at the margins of life, the addicts, the criminals, and anyone who wants to transform their suffering by using their own stories to inspire others. I\u2019m grateful for all the people who lifted me up while I was at my lowest, and I try to pay it forward wherever and whenever I can. My older boys are all grown and out of college. Kaden will be graduating and heading off to college soon, and his memories of being taken from home have faded. I no longer overcompensate for what happened, and he no longer tests me to make sure I will stay. The single year we were apart no longer defines our relationship or haunts my sleep. DJ eventually found his way out of drugs. He is an ultra-endurance runner and a good father. Sam and I have been married for close to a decade, and each year that passes I settle more and more into the unfamiliar space of being vulnerable. Talking to him after a hard day, asking for help with a problem I\u2019m struggling with, working through a disagreement\u2014all of it still feels like learning a foreign language, but with practice it gets easier. I guess the third time really is the charm. My home is chaotic and loud and full of children and animals and love. My addiction to escape is in remission, but I stay vigilant in case it shows up again. For now, there is no other place I\u2019d rather be than where I am. There is no other person I\u2019d rather be than who I am. And no other life I\u2019d rather live than the beautiful mess of a life I\u2019m living. \n acknowledgments Buckle up because this is going to be a lot. For as much as I like to think of myself as a loner, there are so many people from my many lives who I need to acknowledge. First, I have to thank my agent, my friend, my partner in crime (not literally, people), my first champion, and the person who opened up a brave new world of wonder and opportunity and words to me when I was at my lowest\u2014Doug Abrams. If \u201cthank you\u201d is the most powerful prayer there is, then I offer it up to you, Doug. Thank you, a million times thank you! Peanut Butter Meet Jelly. I also must thank my other agent, my more fashionable and chic twin, my work bestie, my Wordle foe, and one of the most brilliant and badass women I know in business and in life\u2014Rachel Neumann. I want to be you when I grow up. Thank you for supporting me through this process, even when I was crying in parking lots, and for the many times you were just simply there\u2014a calm presence when I was anything but. Doug and Rachel make everyone they meet better humans. You should meet them! I also want to thank everyone at Idea Architects for being the best hype team for me as a boss and as an author; Janelle Julian, Mariah Sanford, Ty Love (see dedication), Bella Roberts, Sarah Rainone, Mark Hitz, Jordan Jacks, Alyssa Knickerbocker, Kelsey Sheronas, Julia Shefcik, Staci Bruce, Stacie Sheftel, Kelly Miner, Andrew Mumm, Michael Matkin, and all the collaborative writers I got to train and work with over the years. I miss you. I love you. I am grateful for every single thing each one of you taught me over twelve years. Eamon Dolan, my brilliant, kind, ruthless, savvy editor at Simon & Schuster, thank you for pushing me out of my comfort zone when I needed it, reassuring me when I needed that, and teaching me what the phrase \u201cvague bombast\u201d means. I\u2019m still going to send you that T-shirt! We chose each other, and this book is better for those choices. You make me smarter every single time I talk to you. Eamon has his own book coming out\u2014and you all want to read it! Thank you to everyone at Simon & Schuster who believed in me and in this book\u2014Jonathan Karp, Priscilla Painton, Tzipora Baitch, Lewelin Polanco, Beth Maglione, Sara Kitchen, Bri Scharfenberg, Alyssa diPierro, Omesha Edwards, and Julia Prosser. There are so many people working behind the scenes in production and sales and publicity and marketing, and while I may not know all your names, I appreciate you, I hope to meet you, and you are the bridge between author and reader and there should be monuments in your likeness. A big thank-you also to Joseph Papa of Joseph Papa PR for taking me on (even though I\u2019m not a celebrity) and being my publicity champion! In the UK I want to thank Caspian Dennis and Sandy Violette at Abner Stein, and Camilla Ferrier, Jemma McDonagh, Brittany Poulin, Saliann, and everyone else at the Marsh Agency. You are all my UK family, whether you signed up for that or not. I also want to thank my UK publisher and editors: Claudia Connal (miss you), Jake Lingwood, and the amazing Mala Sanghera-Warren. There are also a ton of people behind the scenes at Hachette/Octopus Publishing Group launching my book into the UK, and I am grateful for all of you and hope to meet you in person. Thank you to Scott Budnick, Ameet, Gabby, Katie, Lauren, Saul, and the entire One Community team for reading about my trauma and thinking this would make some great TV comedy. Obviously. Thank you to Amy Welsh-Hanning and Mallory Edens for believing in this project and lending your passion, expertise, and humor. And a big thank-you to Sylvie Rabineau and Elizabeth Wachtel, my film/TV agents at WME for being both brilliant and bighearted. Hollywood needs more people like you and like all the people I\u2019ve mentioned. It wasn\u2019t easy to write this book and I\u2019m grateful to all the friends, authors, early readers, late-night talkers, guides, and cheerleaders who helped me along the way. Eileen Burke-Woodward, Heidi Rielly, Bill Rielly, Clifford Henderson, Dixie Cox, Erica Smith Jiminez, Lori Cressy, Lisa Smith (thank you for finally letting me into a book club), Noel Diop, Evy Poumpouras, Silvia Vasquez-Lavado, Jane Chen, Emma Nadler, Crystal Hefner, Benjamin Gilmer, Mark Daley, Karen Sparks, Ren Ligon, Ben McBride, Eldra Jackson, Aaron Shulman, Robert Waldinger, Ethan Kross, Jim Doty, Dave Evans, Bill Burnett, Cynthia Chase, Cassandra Byard, Tracy Van Hoy, Irene Tsouprake Holombo, Peggy Callahan, Boo Prince, Alexandra Metzler, Chris Metzler, DNA, Kristy Gateley, Carly O\u2019Brien, Oliver Midgley, Anaya Saipresert, and so many more. I could write a whole other book with the names of people who have been there for me when I was finally brave enough to share my story. Thank you for helping me find the humor in the tragedy and the meaning out of the mess. A special thank-you to Bryan Stevenson and my dear friend Anthony Ray Hinton. You are both an inspiration to me always! Before I began my writing journey, I took another kind of journey to Soltara in Costa Rica with twenty perfect strangers. I love you all, and we shared a weeklong psychic battle few could comprehend (what is behind door 2?). Megan, Mike, Luke, Tariq, Will, Liz, Weslie, Bronson, Rachel, Banay, Irene, Phil, George, Anthony, Kazu, Bree, Beth, Alan, and Catherine \u00d7 2. Thank you to Kenton Bell for the coaching, the laughter, the guidance, and reminding me that everything I need, I already have. Still waiting for that Zap! And finally (finally), I have to thank my family (buckle up again). I want to acknowledge my new family (thank you, DNA testing\u2014this is a story for the next book): my father, Dave Lawrence; my sister, Shelley Welander; my two new brothers, Kevin and Craig Lawrence; and my brother-in-law, Cam. My seven nephews and nieces that I never knew I had: Copper, Ever, Jasper, Ella, Grace, Sofia, and Mackenzie. We have become a family late in life, but you have given me the greatest gift of my adult life: family. We recognized each other from the jump, and my heart is full with each one of you. To the children I gave birth to, Dylan, Cody, Ty, and Kaden, I love you always and forever and it\u2019s you all who put the \u201cMama\u201d in Mama Love. You are all such amazing young men, despite the messiness of my many lives, and thank you for your grace and forgiveness and unconditional love. To the children I have been lucky enough to play the role of stepmother for, Hailey, Logan, Chase, and Dahlia\u2014thank you for letting me be the bonus parent in your life as you\u2019ve grown. I love you all fiercely. Finally, to Sam, my third-time\u2019s-a-charm husband who shows me every day just how magical and exhilarating steady love and support can be. You make me feel safe. You make me feel loved. You adore me at my quirkiest, and support every single crazy idea I\u2019ve ever had. You have no idea what a gift you are just by being next to me. I can\u2019t believe I\u2019ve made it married so long, and I can\u2019t wait to see what the next thirty-plus years have in store for us! Thank you to the women in G and the women in Blaine who shared this journey, you know who you are\u2026 To learn more about how to help incarcerated and formerly incarcerated women, please visit: www.thegemmaproject.org \n about the author \u00a9 CODY LOVE LARA LOVE HARDIN is a literary agent, author, and president of True Literary. Prior to founding True Literary, she was the co-CEO of Idea Architects. She has an MFA in creative writing and is a four-time New York Times bestselling collaborative writer, including the #1 bestseller Designing Your Life and the 2018 Oprah\u2019s Book Club pick The Sun Does Shine, which she coauthored with Anthony Ray Hinton. She lives in La Selva Beach, California. SimonandSchuster.com www.SimonandSchuster.com/Authors/Lara-Love-Hardin @simonbooks \n Simon & Schuster 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 www.SimonandSchuster.com \u201cPrayer Before the Prayer\u201d copyright Mpho Tutu, from The Book of Forgiving. Certain names and identifying details have been changed. Copyright \u00a9 2023 by Lara Love Hardin All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Simon & Schuster Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020. First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition August 2023 SIMON & SCHUSTER and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc. For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or business@simonandschuster.com. The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com. Interior design by Lewelin Polanco Jacket design and illustration by Pete Garceau Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for. ISBN 978-1-9821-9766-7 ISBN 978-1-9821-9768-1 (ebook) \n Thank you for downloading this Simon & Schuster ebook. Get a FREE ebook when you join our mailing list. Plus, get updates on new releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster. Click below to sign up and see terms and conditions. CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive exclusive offers in your inbox. \n We hope you enjoyed reading this Simon & Schuster ebook. Get a FREE ebook when you join our mailing list. Plus, get updates on new releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster. Click below to sign up and see terms and conditions. CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive exclusive offers in your inbox. \n More in Personal Memoirs The Glass Castle Shoe Dog The Girl with the Lower Back Tattoo Year of Yes An Invisible Thread Primates of Park Avenue \n" }

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"doc": " Contents Cover Title Page Dedication Chapter 1: As Needed for Pain Chapter 2: Staycation Chapter 3: Cul-de-Sacs and Squad Cars Chapter 4: The Sally Port Chapter 5: Country Music Hell Chapter 6: Makeover Chapter 7: Lost Girls Chapter 8: Mama Love Chapter 9: New Year, New You Chapter 10: Roll It Up Chapter 11: The Neighbor from Hell Chapter 12: Push and Pull Chapter 13: Mother\u2019s Day Chapter 14: All Buses Lead to the Same Place Chapter 15: Joint and Several Chapter 16: Fucking Google Chapter 17: The Four-Minute Mile Chapter 18: A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood Chapter 19: The Dalai Lama Hates Me Chapter 20: Many Lives Chapter 21: Real Power Chapter 22: The Worst Thing I Have Ever Done Acknowledgments About the Author Copyright Guide Cover Start of Content Title Page Dedication Acknowledgments About the Author Copyright I II III V VI VII VIII IX X 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207 208 209 210 211 212 213 214 215 216 217 218 219 220 221 222 223 224 225 226 227 228 229 230 231 232 233 234 235 236 237 238 239 240 241 242 243 244 245 246 247 248 249 250 251 252 253 254 255 256 257 258 259 260 261 262 263 264 265 266 267 268 269 270 271 272 273 274 275 276 277 278 279 280 281 282 283 284 285 286 287 288 289 290 291 292 293 294 295 296 297 298 299 300 301 302 303 304 305 306 307 308 309 310 \n \n \n For my boys\u2014Dylan, Cody, Ty, and Kaden\u2014my forever Loves through these many lives \n chapter 1 AS NEEDED FOR PAIN Reading was my first addiction. When I tell people this today, they laugh and nod as if they understand, as if they too are part of a secret book-addict society whose greatest crime is staying up late, a flashlight under the covers, compulsively reading page after page. The strange thing is, no one ever asks me what my second addiction is. I mean, someone who loved to read could never be a real addict, could they? The kind of addict who steals from their family, betrays the people they love, commits felonies, implodes their life because the finding and using and finding more consumes every ounce of who they used to be. No one ever loses their job because they read too much. There are no book club interventions. The prisons aren\u2019t full of people who stole to fund their Kindle habit. The truth is I\u2019ve only ever had one addiction. The white whale of addictions: escape. From as far back as I can remember there has always been a better place than wherever I am. A better me than whoever I was. Books helped me escape when I was young. Not just because of my precocious angsty-ness and early onset existential crises; they were literal escape. Most of my early childhood memories are just stories told to me decades later. Stories of violence and starvation and abandonment. I do remember every teacher, though, from kindergarten through high school. I remember the first multisyllabic word I read in school: policeman. I was so proud of myself as I sounded out the letters. In first grade I read Gone with the Wind\u2014twice. It was over a thousand pages. I didn\u2019t understand Rhett Butler or Scarlett O\u2019Hara or the Civil War, but I savored the endless tiny print pages of word after word. I savored the escape. The longer the book the better. The only clear memories I have besides school after the age of ten are of moments of crisis. My brothers stealing my stepfather\u2019s Pinto and sinking it in Walden Pond. The police bringing my sister home for public drunkenness. My aunt Janice arriving from San Francisco in the middle of the night, her face swollen and unrecognizable\u2014a mix of red, black, and blue. My brothers and sister dancing around my stepfather\u2019s finger that they found on the front lawn after my mom rushed him bleeding to the hospital. It was a lawn mower accident of some sort, and it was the only time I remember my siblings expressing joy. I didn\u2019t know why they hated my stepfather so much, or what made him pack up one day and leave for good. I don\u2019t have a single memory of eating dinner at home with my family. I don\u2019t recall any vacations. If I try to remember my childhood, there is only a vague sense of fear, of unease. I have no clear picture of anything concrete or symbolic representing home, and with two of my siblings dying young, I don\u2019t have anyone left to fill in the blanks. I only see myself alone in my room, reading. And not in a meet-cute, flashlight-under-the-covers, love-affair-with-books kind of way. When I talk about my childhood book addiction, I\u2019m talking about a desperate grip on the pages, reading the same books over and over, never having enough pages to fill the void. When I read, I could pretend I was someone else. I was Harriet the Spy, Nancy Drew, Lucy in Narnia. I was Scarlett O\u2019Hara declaring she would never go hungry again. I was a teenager visiting California for the first time, meeting the boy of her dreams, and fighting all night to keep the distant family\u2019s orange grove from freezing in a cold spell. I was a feisty woman who didn\u2019t need a man until she desperately needed him in every Nora Roberts book ever written. Because we moved from Maynard to Concord, I also read Alcott, Thoreau, Hawthorne, and Emerson. I read Tolstoy and Dostoevsky but found Russian relationships to be far more confusing than the ones in Nora Roberts\u2019s worlds. I loved happy endings, characters who had clear motivations for doing what they did. I read books like a peeping Tom, and I stalked all these lives that weren\u2019t mine. Even the sad people in books had moments of joy and redemption that I envied. Eventually the reading turned to writing. I started writing short stories in high school and they got me the attention I hungered for. I always loved school. I played varsity lacrosse and field hockey. I could be friends with the cool kids and the smart kids and the sporty kids and even the stoner kids although I didn\u2019t like to get stoned. I could cross social lines seamlessly and be whoever people needed me to be. I\u2019d like to say it was a gift born of my curiosity about people, but in truth it was more of a response to trauma. I wanted to be loved. I wanted to feel safe. So I needed every single person I met to like me, and if I could make them love and need me, even better. After school I went home with different friends and did homework at their kitchen table and joined their family for dinner. At each home I could pretend I was exactly who they thought I must be. Everyone\u2019s parents loved me, except my own. I was the first person in my family to get into college. I took out loans and put myself through undergrad and graduate school three thousand miles away. I reinvented myself in California. I moved into the dorms at UC Santa Cruz and wore tie-dye shirts and played Ultimate Frisbee. I hung tapestries in my dorm room and slept with my resident adviser. Then I slept with his best friend. No one could believe, with my long beach-blond hair and my flowing hippie scarves, that I grew up in Massachusetts. The first week of college I tried mushrooms, and cocaine, and LSD. They were passed around like candy during orientation week. Who I was before college was quickly tucked away on a shelf. That Lara was over, and I was officially a carefree peace-and-love California surfer girl. I majored in creative writing, because that meant I could keep reading, keep writing, and keep escaping. I thought I could outrun whatever afflicted my family, and I swore I would never be like any of them. I thought education equaled inoculation, and if I just kept being the good girl with the good grades who said the right things and played the right parts, my life would not end in Anna Karenina tragedy. But you can\u2019t outrun yourself, and eventually books and writing didn\u2019t give me the escape I still craved. I turned to sex, and food, and money when I had it, and more sex when I didn\u2019t. And then it was opiates; Vicodin for a long, semi-manageable time, and then heroin. I was addicted to all those things and none of those things. Escape was always my real addiction, the one true high. Books were just my gateway drug. Sex just got me pregnant. Food just made me puffy. Vicodin just helped me pretend I was happy. The heroin, though, that gave me everything I had ever wanted\u2014peace, joy, escape. Until it didn\u2019t. And everything I knew and everyone I loved was gone. \n chapter 2 STAYCATION The key to committing a crime is the same as it is for doing anything you\u2019re unsure of\u2014confidence. With my head held high and a straight fake-it-till-you-make-it attitude, I walk into the Seaside Inn Resort and Spa like I belong there. I haven\u2019t showered in three days and my hair is in an unkempt topknot, but I put on my sunglasses and do my best impression of Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada as I saunter through the revolving door. I stumble a little because I haven\u2019t eaten much in the last three days, and the revolutions give me vertigo. Kaden\u2019s chubby toddler hand is held tightly in mine, and he\u2019s wearing his favorite Spider-Man onesie. Our dog, Chase, is in the back seat of the car waiting with the valet. I don\u2019t have any money to tip the valet when we leave, but I\u2019ll worry about that later. \u201cAren\u2019t you excited for a little vacation?\u201d I say to Kaden. \u201cYour brothers love the Seaside Inn, and they are going to meet up with us after school.\u201d Kaden does a little Spider-Man wiggle and holds my hand tighter. \u201cThey even have a hot tub,\u201d I say a little too loudly. I\u2019m desperately trying to pass as nonchalant. The power is turned off at our house so we can\u2019t stay home with no heat and no electricity. Plus, my next-door neighbors saw me greet the mailman and take their mail along with my own, which I played off as a mistake and handed to them when they ran out of their house. But I know they know. I\u2019ll worry about that later. I spent the morning on my computer buying online Best Western gift cards with a credit card I had stolen from an unlocked car at back-to-school night two days ago. Then I prepaid this hotel using the gift cards. I have to show ID to check in, but I\u2019m hoping the gift cards aren\u2019t connected to the stolen credit card. The woman had a ton of credit cards in her purse, so fingers crossed she hasn\u2019t noticed one missing. I only took the one card, which is safely in the pocket of my sweatpants, so I feel inordinately virtuous. I did use it to buy gas and lunch for Kaden, plus some snacks for the boys when they get here, but I kept my head down in case there were cameras at the store. \u201cChecking in?\u201d the clerk asks. \u201cYes,\u201d I say. \u201cLast name?\u201d I hesitate for just a second too long, and he tilts his head to the right slightly. He can\u2019t be over twenty-five, and he peers at me expectantly from behind wire-rimmed glasses. I can tell he\u2019s wearing them to look older, to look professional. I know that game, and I smile brightly at him and take a deep breath. \u201cLove,\u201d I say, \u201cLara Love.\u201d \u201cIf I could just see your ID, please.\u201d I let go of Kaden\u2019s hand and reach into my pocket to pull out my driver\u2019s license. I leave the credit card with another mom\u2019s name on it in my pocket. He takes my license and then starts tapping away on his computer. I pick Kaden up in my arms and rest him against the marble counter. The tapping continues, marked with occasional pauses while he squints at his screen. The squinting confirms to me that the glasses are just for show, and for some reason this makes me feel better. \u201cThere are giant goldfish in the koi pond here,\u201d I say to Kaden. The clerk smiles at me, and I smile back. \u201cI got married here,\u201d I explain to him. \u201cA long time ago\u2014twelve years ago actually. My first husband.\u201d He nods and continues tapping. I have to stop myself from saying more. I can\u2019t act like I\u2019m nervous. That\u2019s the first thing that will give you away. \u201cBoy, has it changed around here.\u201d I need to shut up, but if we can\u2019t stay here I don\u2019t know where we\u2019ll go. I\u2019m dodging the repo men who are coming for my car, dodging a neighbor who knows I took a check from him and used it at the grocery store. I can\u2019t take Kaden home when we have no food and no electricity. If only we can get in our room, then I can take a breath and figure out what to do next. Then it will be just like we\u2019re on vacation. The clerk finally stops tapping. \u201cIt looks like you\u2019re all prepaid for the room for a week. I\u2019ll just need the plate number for your parking pass and a credit card for incidentals.\u201d My grip on Kaden tightens. Shit, shit, shit. I completely forgot that part of resort check-in. I have to think on my feet. I don\u2019t have a working credit card. \u201cWill you charge the card?\u201d I ask. \u201cMy sister\u2019s joining me here and I left my purse in her car. I happen to have her card, though. Long story. But I don\u2019t want to charge anything to her. This trip is my treat, so can I switch the card later?\u201d \u201cWe\u2019ll just authorize the card, but you can use a different card if there\u2019s a balance when you check out.\u201d \u201cWhat sister?\u201d asks Kaden. I smile at him but ignore the question. My sister died twenty years ago, but I can\u2019t think about that right now. I just need to get us to our room. I pull out the card and hand it to the clerk. He swipes it without even looking at the name, and I realize I\u2019ve made up the sister lie for no reason. \u201cThere\u2019s not a lot of people here right now; we\u2019re before the holiday rush, so I\u2019ve upgraded you.\u201d I don\u2019t register what holiday he\u2019s talking about, but then I remember it was just Halloween so he must be talking about Thanksgiving. \u201cThanks so much, that\u2019s very kind. My sister will love it here. She\u2019s visiting from the East Coast.\u201d I really need to stop talking. \u201cAnd we\u2019re a polling place, so in a couple of days there will be a lot of activity in our main ballroom for the presidential election, but your room is far away.\u201d \u201cOh great, I love to vote.\u201d He just blinks at me a few times too many and says nothing. \u201cWe love Obama,\u201d I add unnecessarily, looking down at Kaden for acknowledgment. Kaden has no comment on the election, and after an awkward pause, the clerk hands me a set of key cards in a little envelope. \u201cTwo keys enough?\u201d I nod and watch as he writes the room number on the outside. He pulls out a little map of the resort. \u201cYou\u2019re here,\u201d he says, and marks the lobby with an X. \u201cIf you drive around to the right side here, you can park right behind your suite. Room service is until ten p.m., and the hot tub is really close for Spider-Man. And the koi are here.\u201d I study the line he\u2019s drawn with an arrow to our room as if it\u2019s an algebra problem I\u2019m going to be tested on. \u201cWonderful, and thanks so much for the upgrade.\u201d \u201cReady, buddy?\u201d I ask Kaden. \u201cI want a baby sister,\u201d he says. \u201cI think three older brothers is enough,\u201d I say with a laugh. I roll my eyes at the clerk before we turn to walk out, but then remember I\u2019m still wearing my sunglasses. I really need to get it together. My car is still out front, and the valet looks at me expectantly. \u201cI don\u2019t have any cash on me,\u201d I say, \u201cbut I\u2019ll catch you before we go out to dinner.\u201d \u201cNo problem,\u201d he says. Only it is a problem, one of many big problems. We park and walk into the hotel through an open courtyard. Our suite is located on the ground floor and is decorated with seashell lamps and large abstract paintings that I think are supposed to look like ocean waves. Despite its name, the Seaside Inn is a good twenty-minute walk to the nearby state beach, with Highway 1 running between the hotel and the shore. The suite is large, and there\u2019s a bedroom with two beds and a large living room with a beige foldout couch. There\u2019s also a sliding door that opens to the back where I\u2019ve parked, which makes it easier to sneak in the dog and unload our bags, toys, snacks, and dog food. Once everything is inside, I hang the DO NOT DISTURB sign, double-lock the door, and pull the curtain closed in front of the slider. Only then do I lie down on the bed and take a deep breath. I still have to figure out the credit card situation and tip the valet, but for now we are here. We are safe. And I can pretend everything happening outside of this room is far, far away from me. Not long ago, I could vacation at a resort like this for real, with my own credit card and ID and plenty of cash to tip everyone. In the past year, my life has collapsed. I turn on PBS for Kaden and give him a Fruit Roll-Up, and as Sesame Street plays I grab my purse, walk into the bathroom, and lock the door. I carefully unfold the tarnished piece of foil and study its surface. It\u2019s marred with black scorch marks and tiny remnants of black tar heroin. There\u2019s nothing here really, but it\u2019s worth a shot. I grab a lighter and a straw, and I hold the flame under the bottom of the foil and pray that something on the surface bubbles into smoke. I just need a little bit to get me through until my husband, DJ, gets here with more. I had told him I would handle the hotel if he handled the drugs. \u201cGo provide,\u201d I had joked, \u201cwhile I get shelter.\u201d But now, sitting in this bathroom, my joke doesn\u2019t feel that funny. And the tinfoil yields nothing but parched soot. I open the door to check on Kaden. \u201cYou okay, baby guy?\u201d He smiles at me, his baby teeth covered in red Fruit Roll-Up, and points at Big Bird. \u201cI know,\u201d I say, \u201cI love him too! I\u2019ll be out in a sec, okay?\u201d He turns back to the television, and I close the bathroom door and sit on the marble floor. I dump my entire purse out and carefully move all the items\u2014hairbrush, which I haven\u2019t used in a while, wallet, empty pill bottle, grocery store receipt\u2014to the side in their own pile. Then I carefully pick through the dust and bottom-of-purse debris until I find some small brown chips. I carefully use the pad of my index finger to blot them up and then gently scrape them onto the foil. I do this over and over until every last crumb rests on the foil. This time, when I put the flame under the foil, the top slightly boils and smoke rises. I quickly inhale it through the straw and hold my breath as long as possible. I don\u2019t know if I\u2019m smoking heroin or food crumbs or lint, but I feel the anxiety slowly leave my chest. Anxiety for me has always felt like being in trouble, and with one big exhale, for a few brief shiny-foil moments, I feel all my troubles float away. No villain ever thinks of herself as a villain, and certainly in the story I told about my life, I was always the good guy. Everything I did, I told myself, was for my children. In my mind, my crimes had no victims, or if they did, the victims were corporate entities so vast they were as formless as air. I couldn\u2019t think about the woman whose card I had used to check into the Seaside Inn, because I knew her. She was a crunchy, granola-type mom with five children all in a Montessori school. We weren\u2019t close, except in the way mom friends are who only say hi to each other at school events or birthday parties or commiserating in the pickup line after school. I didn\u2019t know her story, or what she did for a living besides being a mom, or what she feared or what her struggles were. In my mind, she had to be someone well off, oblivious to suffering, untouched by heartache or struggle. Just another perfect mom living a perfect life, parenting perfectly in her perfect house with her perfect partner. She probably did Pilates, made her own yogurt, and had deep, meaningful conversations with her close circle of friends. I didn\u2019t hate her; I just wished I could be her. DJ doesn\u2019t get to the hotel until almost nine. Kaden is asleep in the bedroom when he comes in. \u201cNice place,\u201d he says. \u201cDid you get it?\u201d \u201cWho takes care of you?\u201d he asks. \u201cYou?\u201d I say weakly. \u201cThat\u2019s right. I sold some stuff from the house and hooked us up.\u201d His pupils are tiny pinpricks, so I know he used before he came here. I feel jealous, and I\u2019m anxious for the small talk to stop so I can get to it. I don\u2019t ask what he sold because I don\u2019t want to know. I just hope it wasn\u2019t anything that belonged to our children. I have three boys from my first marriage, he has a boy and a girl from his first marriage, and together we share Kaden Love Jackson\u2014the second-marriage baby glue that holds us all together. We are a blended family, sharing custody and coparenting with our exes: we don\u2019t believe in saying \u201cstep\u201d children or \u201chalf\u201d siblings. Six children ages three to seventeen who depend on me. I don\u2019t tell DJ about the stolen credit card, because he\u2019s just set down a golf-ball-size lump of black tar heroin. \u201cWow,\u201d I say. \u201cDid you sell your car?\u201d He shakes his head and pulls out a fresh sheet of tinfoil. He breaks off a small piece of heroin and hands it to me along with a strip of foil. I get up quickly to check that Kaden is still sleeping in the other room and then softly close the door between the bedroom and the living room. \u201cDid the boys come after school?\u201d DJ asks. \u201cNo. Cody had basketball and Dylan was with friends and Ty said he had a lot of homework.\u201d \u201cSo Bryan and Darcy wouldn\u2019t let them?\u201d \u201cNo, they just had teenage things to do. It\u2019s a school night for them.\u201d I know I sound defensive, but it\u2019s easier for me to believe my boys are busy than face the truth: I\u2019m chaos right now, and they have chosen to stay at their dad\u2019s. \u201cI mean, it\u2019s the same with Hailey and Logan.\u201d DJ blows smoke in my face. \u201cIt\u2019s her week with them, but the boys were going to spend time with you.\u201d I can\u2019t believe we are going to have a coparenting fight right now. I haven\u2019t told DJ that Bryan informed me he is keeping the boys for the foreseeable future because they told him I wasn\u2019t getting them to school on time, or picking them up on time, and that I was making dinner really late at night, if I made it at all. \u201cHandle your business,\u201d is all he said to me, which is Bryan-speak for \u201cGet your shit together, because I know something is wrong but I don\u2019t really want to know what.\u201d I never would have told Bryan anyway, but it would have been nice to have been asked if I was okay. I\u2019m suddenly so angry at DJ I want to throw something at him, but I don\u2019t want to wake Kaden. \u201cYou know,\u201d I say, \u201cthis hotel is where Bryan and I had our wedding.\u201d It\u2019s not a lamp to the face, but it will still cut him. \u201cGreat. Did you have your honeymoon night in this room?\u201d \u201cMaybe.\u201d In truth, our wedding night was spent in a top-floor suite on the other side of the hotel. Our friends had covered the bed in rose petals, but we were so tired we\u2019d just brushed them off and gone to sleep. Dylan was a year old, and I was pregnant with Cody at the time, so I wasn\u2019t up for a wild night unless it involved a foot massage and more wedding cake. But those are the last things I would tell my current husband right now. After we smoke, DJ immediately nods off on the couch and begins to snore. I check the locks on the doors and peer out the back window to make sure the car is still there. Opiates never make me sleepy. They give me a boost of energy and life. They make me feel capable and normal. The credit card is still in my pocket, so I pull it out and read the name: Carol Clark. For some reason the alliteration makes me weepy, and I send a silent apology to Carol wherever she is. Then I call Bryan. \u201cHey,\u201d I say. \u201cSorry to call so late.\u201d \u201cNo problem,\u201d he says. \u201cWhat\u2019s up?\u201d \u201cWe\u2019re having a little staycation at the Seaside Inn. Just a break before the holiday madness, you know?\u201d Bryan says nothing. \u201cCould the boys come by after school tomorrow for swimming and dinner? The pool is heated and there\u2019s a hot tub. I\u2019ll bring them back to your house right after dinner.\u201d Still more silence. \u201cPlease, I really miss them. I know things have been a bit crazy, but all is good now, really.\u201d \u201cAre you sure?\u201d \u201cI promise. Everything with me is back to normal.\u201d I stare down at the half-melted lump on the tinfoil. When we were married, I had told Bryan I had a problem with Vicodin. I took three pills every day this week and they make me so happy, I had said. I think I have a problem. I might need help. Please throw them away for me. I can\u2019t do it. He had just shrugged and put them on the top shelf of the linen closet. \u201cIt\u2019s no big deal, everyone takes them.\u201d Later that week, after watching out the window all night waiting for him to come home, I had dragged a chair over to the closet and retrieved the bottle. Five years later we were long divorced, and my three pills a day had become sixty. I look over at DJ snoring and say the thing on my mind to Bryan. \u201cIt\u2019s no big deal, everyone goes through a hard time now and then.\u201d He doesn\u2019t get the reference. I wake up to the hotel phone ringing loudly. Its tone is shrill and jarring. DJ is not in the bed next to the one Kaden and I are sleeping in, and I fumble with the receiver when I answer. \u201cHello?\u201d My voice comes out dry and croaking. I\u2019m dehydrated and my head hurts. \u201cMs. Love?\u201d \u201cYes?\u201d \u201cThere is a problem with your credit card that we need to speak to you about.\u201d The woman\u2019s voice is too sharp for my brain. \u201cIt\u2019s my sister\u2019s card.\u201d \u201cWell, it\u2019s been reported stolen, so we need to speak to your sister.\u201d \u201cShe\u2019s asleep right now.\u201d \u201cWell, we need you both to come to the front desk immediately.\u201d I look around the room frantically. \u201cOkay, just give us a few minutes and I\u2019m sure we can sort this out. There\u2019s obviously been an error with the bank. I\u2019ll give you another card, and my sister can call the bank with you.\u201d Her tone softens. \u201cWell, okay, that would be great. I\u2019ll be here, and I\u2019ll see you in a few.\u201d \u201cFifteen minutes tops,\u201d I say. \u201cMy baby is sleeping so I need to get him up.\u201d \u201cOh, I\u2019m so sorry, of course\u2026\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s okay, it\u2019s not your fault. We\u2019ll be there as soon as possible. We\u2019re supposed to be on a staycation.\u201d I laugh softly and hang up. I run into the living room, but DJ isn\u2019t there either, and when I look out the back window his car is gone. I try his cell but he doesn\u2019t answer. Now what? I go into the bathroom and splash water on my face. My eyes are red-rimmed and my face is pale. I quickly pinch my cheeks to give them color and hurriedly throw my sweats and T-shirt on. I open the slider and let the dog out to pee and then put him in the back of my SUV. I roll down the front passenger window and run back into the suite grabbing everything I can carry and then run back out to toss it through the window. I do this several times, just loosely piling up toys and food and Kaden\u2019s books and our clothing on the floor and the passenger seat. I toss our empty tote bags on top of the pile then run back inside. DJ must have taken all the heroin because I can\u2019t find anything but the used foil and my lighter and straw. I throw them in my purse and strap it across my body. Kaden is still sleeping, both arms stretched above his head and his cheeks rosy pink. I gently lift him from the bed and carry him to his car seat. He wakes up when I strap him in. \u201cHot tub now?\u201d he asks. \u201cFish?\u201d \u201cSoon, baby,\u201d I say. \u201cWe\u2019re going to go play at the park first.\u201d I close the back door and get in the driver\u2019s seat. I don\u2019t have time to worry if DJ will come back before I get ahold of him. I throw the car in reverse and peel out of the lot. As I\u2019m driving back toward the lobby I see a serious-looking man and woman in black suits walking toward my room. They look like security, and their heads whip around to watch as I speed past. \u201cNo park, I want to see the fish.\u201d Kaden starts to cry in his car seat, and I know a full-blown three-year-old tantrum is brewing. \u201cFish!\u201d he screams and begins to kick his feet against the back of the passenger seat. I turn onto the highway but don\u2019t know where I\u2019m going. Kaden is crying harder, and I want to cry with him. We\u2019re both tired and hungry and want comfort. I get off the freeway at the exit to our house but instead of going home I drive to Willowbrook Park. It\u2019s Kaden\u2019s favorite, and I\u2019m hoping a turn on the swings will distract him. I need to take him to see some fish. I need to find DJ. I need to call Bryan and tell him there\u2019s been a change of plans. I need so many things I can\u2019t think straight, but mostly I need to smoke some heroin because I\u2019m already starting to feel a bit nauseous and uncomfortable. Every mom from our neighborhood goes to Willowbrook with their children, and I definitely don\u2019t want to see anyone I know. Not looking like this. Not feeling like this. I pull up next to the park but don\u2019t turn off the car. Kaden is suddenly quiet, distracted by all the kids playing. I startle when my cell rings, but quickly see it\u2019s DJ. \u201cWhere are you?\u201d I say instead of hello. \u201cI went to get some stuff from the house.\u201d \u201cIs the power still off?\u201d \u201cWell, it\u2019s not going to magically turn itself on.\u201d \u201cI had to leave the hotel,\u201d I whisper into the phone. \u201cWe\u2019re at Willowbrook. They found out the card was stolen. I ran out the back. And I need to\u2026 you know\u2026 you took the stuff.\u201d \u201cYeah, sorry. I\u2019m just around the corner, I\u2019ll be right there.\u201d My whispering has caught Kaden\u2019s attention, so I smile at him in the rearview mirror. \u201cWant to go on the swings?\u201d I ask brightly. \u201cWe\u2019ll have a picnic.\u201d All I have is chips and Fruit Roll-Ups and juice boxes, but that will have to be enough. I try to push all the clothes and toys down onto the floor so if anyone I know walks by they won\u2019t think I\u2019m messy and homeless. I\u2019m so messy and homeless. DJ\u2019s truck rolls up in a couple of minutes, and he is lit up and happy. He swings Kaden out of his car seat while surreptitiously handing me the ball of heroin. \u201cHandle your business while we play,\u201d he says. What is it with men telling me to handle my business? I get in the back seat and hang towels in the windows so I can\u2019t be seen while I smoke. The dog starts to whine so I know he needs to be walked. I have to make a plan but can\u2019t until I get my mind right. I need to get the power on at home. I need to call Bryan so that he doesn\u2019t bring the boys to the hotel later. I need everything to go back to the way it was a year ago. I was clean and sober and running a successful business, and I wasn\u2019t stealing and lying and running from hotel security. After my fifth inhale, I decide I\u2019m going to report my purse stolen\u2014that will explain my ID being used with a stolen credit card. This idea feels ingenious, and as soon as I have a plan I relax. I will also call PG&E and pretend I\u2019ve just moved into our house as a renter and need to set up new service. They won\u2019t bill me for a month. I can\u2019t believe I haven\u2019t thought of this before. High on the heroin, I pull the towel down and look outside\u2014it\u2019s beautiful. The grass is green and the sky is blue and children are laughing and playing. I\u2019ll tell Bryan that he can drop the boys at the house after school. I know I\u2019ll need some groceries before they get there, but as I see all the blankets spread on the green, green grass and all the diaper bags and backpacks and purses lying unattended on those blankets while parents chase their toddlers around the park, I know I can get grocery money easily. In this moment, anything and everything feels possible. I don\u2019t want to stay at a hotel, I want to go home. My home with Kaden\u2019s giant playroom, where my boys have their bedrooms with matching bedroom sets, and the dog has room to run, and my king-size bed is comfortable and warm. Kaden and I will bake cookies and start getting ready for Thanksgiving by making construction paper turkeys after tracing his beautiful little hand on the thick brown paper and cutting carefully around the lines. I\u2019ll pull out the glue sticks and stickers that he loves, and we\u2019ll watch his favorite Disney movie, Mulan, and I\u2019ll make popcorn with butter and salt, and we\u2019ll both take baths and come out clean. It will be cozy and soft and all the good things. My boys will come home, and I will talk about college applications with Dylan, and basketball with Cody, and Ty will tell me about the latest books he\u2019s reading and all about the magical worlds where the stories take place. In this moment I know everything is going to be okay, it\u2019s all going to work out. I will fix all the things I have broken. I just need to go home. \n chapter 3 CUL-DE-SACS AND SQUAD CARS Hide the drugs!\u201d DJ thrusts a piece of tinfoil and a small baggie made of Saran Wrap filled with white powder into my hand and runs out of our bedroom. I\u2019m still trying to register what sounds like a million fists pounding on the front door. I don\u2019t know if it\u2019s cocaine or meth in the wrap. I have never asked. I look around our bedroom, which lacks a secret hidey-hole to stash drugs when the police come. This isn\u2019t a crack house or a drug den; it\u2019s an overpriced two-story home on a cul-de-sac in Aptos, California. I look around our room, the tinfoil held awkwardly in my hand like a butler holding out a silver tray. I hear loud voices downstairs. Kaden is down there. Now that the power is back on, I had just gotten him settled in the living room in front of the big screen to watch his favorite show, Wonder Pets! We lined up all his stuffed animals around him in a circle. We sing the theme song all day every day\u2014it\u2019s about teamwork and saving a baby penguin that\u2019s in trouble. It\u2019s sappy but not as bad as the purple dinosaur song that was the soundtrack when my three older boys were toddlers. I could use the Wonder Pets right now because I\u2019m in trouble. I\u2019m not surprised the police are here, but I\u2019m also not prepared. I pull open DJ\u2019s sock drawer and throw the tinfoil in the back. In our bathroom, I pull out the top drawer of the vanity and throw the small baggie in the back, behind the toothpaste and eye drops and dental floss. These drugs have lived in our home for almost a year, and like bad houseguests, they have taken over everything. I should have evicted them. Instead I welcomed them, and now it\u2019s too late. DJ calls my name from downstairs. I walk out of my room and down the hall. To the left is Kaden\u2019s room\u2014my sweet baby with the pudgy cheeks and the white-blond curls who loves stickers and dogs and who can only fall asleep at night if I lightly run my fingernails up and down his arm. Straight ahead is the room Ty and Cody share. To the right is the room my stepchildren, Hailey and Logan, share. Dylan\u2019s room is downstairs. We are a confusing group at back-to-school nights and sporting events. My ex-husband and his wife. My current husband\u2019s ex-wife and her partner. My current husband and me. Kaden is the only constant, the child who doesn\u2019t share time at another house. We like to think we are progressive parents who put the needs of our children over our own needs and wants. But that\u2019s a hard truth to justify considering I\u2019ve just hidden illegal drugs in my bedroom. Considering I\u2019ve failed them all. I have tried to be the mom I never had. I\u2019ve tried to show up. Let them know they are loved. I have the house and the SUV. I volunteer in the classroom and only occasionally argue with refs at junior high basketball games. I\u2019ve tried so hard to play the part of the perfect mother. But trying to be the perfect mother makes it really hard to admit when you have a problem. Perfect mothers don\u2019t do drugs. And perfect mothers don\u2019t get arrested. I pause at the top of the stairs and look down. Two sheriff\u2019s deputies in uniform are staring up at me. Like Scarlett O\u2019Hara at her first ball, I descend the stairs slowly. Only I am no debutante and neither of these men are Rhett Butler. I see the past year in a flash, and I realize that every single choice has led to this moment. I can\u2019t pretend I didn\u2019t know it was coming. I used to imagine what I would do if they came for me. I\u2019d put a ladder out my back window that I could climb down, Kaden in my arms, and escape into the woods behind our yard. I never put the ladder up, though. Maybe I didn\u2019t want to escape. Or maybe I just knew I had no one and nowhere to run to. I still had enough self-awareness to know that this person I had become was not me. I didn\u2019t hurt people. I didn\u2019t steal. I didn\u2019t lie. I didn\u2019t push away friends and family. I didn\u2019t cheat on my husband. I didn\u2019t neglect my children. I didn\u2019t do hard drugs. I didn\u2019t commit crimes. Only I did. I do. And I am so tired. I don\u2019t eat. I rarely drink water. I have been living on Reese\u2019s Peanut Butter Cups, Coca-Cola, and heroin smoke. My clothes are hanging off me. I finally found the perfect diet to lose the extra baby weight, but an unfortunate side effect of the addiction diet is there\u2019s no one left in your life to admire your new physique. Plus, it turns your skin gray. From the neck down I look fantastic, but my face looks like I\u2019m pushing eighty instead of forty. A few months ago, when a worried friend asked me how I had lost so much weight, I said I\u2019d read The Secret and was visualizing myself skinny. I thought it was genius at the time, but that\u2019s another symptom of addiction\u2014thinking you\u2019re smarter than you really are. I promised her I was okay, and I thought she believed me. I have been pretending I\u2019m okay for so long that I don\u2019t even know what okay means. I go to sleep every night swearing I will fix everything tomorrow. I will end this marriage. I will get clean. I will stop trying to hustle through the day like the perfect cul-de-sac housewife I thought I wanted to be. Tomorrow I would face the fact that all our money was gone, school fees were unpaid, the mortgage was behind, the car was about to get repossessed, my business was in shambles. But yesterday I had to steal to buy groceries, gas, and the drugs that would get me through today so I could fix everything tomorrow. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. As I take each tentative step down those stairs\u2014see the handcuffs the deputy has out for me, hear the Wonder Pets! theme song playing louder and louder\u2014I know I\u2019ve run out of tomorrows. And part of me is relieved. But then I lock eyes with Kaden, who has looked away from his show, from his stuffed animal family, and I can see his worry. He knows this is not normal. \u201cTurn around,\u201d says one of the sheriff\u2019s deputies, yanking an arm and spinning me so it\u2019s behind my back. Kaden stands up at the loud voice. \u201cIt\u2019s okay,\u201d I say as the handcuffs snap on. \u201cWatch your show. I promise it\u2019s going to be okay.\u201d My voice cracks when I tell this lie. I give him a big fake smile. The deputy starts to push me toward our family room. I see Kaden\u2019s lip quivering. \u201cPlease,\u201d I beg, \u201cplease just watch your show.\u201d He takes a step toward me. \u201cNo,\u201d I yell, harsher than I mean to. The Wonder Pets start singing again, and he sits back down. The other deputy goes upstairs, and DJ follows me to the family room. They have not handcuffed him. We sit next to each other on the couch. I watch him surreptitiously pull a tiny baggie out of his pocket and tuck it in the back of the couch. He\u2019s stuffed drugs down with the loose change, pencils, bouncy balls, and all the other couch detritus of suburban life. The deputy asks us, \u201cWhat is my partner going to find upstairs?\u201d I think about the drugs I have just poorly hidden. I also think about the neighbors\u2019 mail and credit cards that I\u2019ve stuffed in a drawer in my closet. I don\u2019t answer, and neither does DJ, because we have watched every episode of Law & Order. I just stare at the back wall of the family room. It\u2019s a dark blue accent wall. When we moved into this house, with down payment help from my mother-in-law, I let the kids choose what color they wanted for each of their rooms. I decided on the cream walls in the family room except for this accent wall. I felt so happy to be someone who had an accent wall in her home. This house wasn\u2019t in my name but it was my house\u2014it was the first house I had ever come close to sort of owning. And this accent wall had always made me feel like I was an adult who had her shit together. This accent wall was a lie. The deputy glares at us while riffling through our papers on the coffee table. Past-due notices and permission slips and postcards from the dentist reminding us it\u2019s time for a teeth cleaning. The deputy upstairs shouts, and I know he\u2019s found the drugs. Suddenly there are more deputies in the house. I hear the front door open and close, and DJ is handcuffed, and they are reading us our rights. My shoulders ache from the cuffs, and I can\u2019t make sense of what\u2019s happening in the chaos. I remember reading about spontaneous combustion when I was in middle school. How people can be going about their life, and suddenly they just implode and turn into a pile of ash on the ground. I was obsessed with this idea when I was thirteen. How a person could be there one minute and gone the next. How every problem, worry, math test, etc. could all disappear in an instant. As a kid, spontaneous combustion didn\u2019t scare me\u2014I was fascinated by the possibility. It gave me hope. I hear loud voices in the living room and awkwardly try to stand up without using my arms. \u201cMy son\u2026\u201d I plead. \u201cDo you understand the rights I have explained?\u201d DJ nods. \u201cWhy don\u2019t you tell me what else we\u2019re going to find? Things will go easier on you if you tell me ahead of time. If you talk to me.\u201d DJ shakes his head no again, and I\u2019m not sure what to say. I don\u2019t know what he means by go easier. \u201cAre we under arrest?\u201d I ask. \u201cCan I call someone to pick up my son, please?\u201d The other deputy is in the room now, holding the drugs. \u201cWe\u2019ve got Child Protective Services here.\u201d He gives me a dirty look. \u201cPlease, can\u2019t I call a family member to come get him? We have family who can be here in five minutes.\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s too late for that.\u201d \u201cPlease\u2026\u201d I start to cry now and have no way to wipe my eyes. \u201cAre you going to talk to us? It will make it easier on your baby if you do.\u201d \u201cWe aren\u2019t saying anything, this is all bullshit!\u201d DJ says angrily. My whole body is shaking, and I just want to get to Kaden. The deputy matches DJ\u2019s anger and roughly grabs my elbow as I stand. \u201cLet\u2019s go, then.\u201d He pulls me back toward the front door. Five strangers are gathered at the bottom of the stairs and through my open front door I see nothing but police cars in front of the house. Kaden runs to me when I get to the door. He is crying and holding his arms out for me to pick him up, but I can\u2019t comfort him with my hands cuffed behind my back. I drop to my knees and his arms go around me. \u201cMommmyyyy\u2026\u201d He is crying and burrowing his face into my neck. A man and a woman in dark suits are talking to the deputies. Child Protective Services. \u201cI love you, baby,\u201d I cry. \u201cThese people are friends. It\u2019s okay, they are going to take you somewhere for a while, but it\u2019s okay, it\u2019s okay\u2026\u201d He gets hysterical and tries to climb on me, his arms around my neck. \u201cI don\u2019t want to go. Please, Mommy, please.\u201d At that moment I split into two pieces. One is me floating on the ceiling and watching Kaden crying and pleading with the other me as strangers pry his arms from my body and pull him out the door. Kaden is there. And then Kaden is gone. I wish I could stay on the ceiling. I wish I could spontaneously combust. I wish I could go back in time and do everything differently. DJ and I are pulled outside. Our neighbors stand in front of their houses. Our cul-de-sac is full of police cars. All I can think is I did this. This is what I have done. \n chapter 4 THE SALLY PORT The back of the police car smells like rust and vomit. DJ and I don\u2019t say a word, and our hands are still cuffed behind our backs. I look down as we make the turn around the cul-de-sac. I know my neighbors are all outside, but I don\u2019t want to see them. The deputy doesn\u2019t say a word but glances at us in the rearview mirror periodically. DJ\u2019s right knee moves up and down rapidly, and every few minutes he blows out a big gust of air as if he has just run a sprint. We drive past the Montessori school before getting on the freeway. The same school where at desperate moments over the last few months I would drive to at 8 a.m., even though my kids no longer went there, knowing that moms always leave their purses in their unlocked cars at private schools. Once they went inside, I would steal any cash I could find or a credit card if they didn\u2019t have cash. And then I would slip back into my white SUV, perfect soccer mom camouflage, and tell myself that I was only using the money to feed my children. I never followed that virtuous thought all the way through to the truth behind it: I needed to steal money for food because I spent all my own money on drugs. It was so much easier to tell myself that I was only hurting the credit card companies, and that twenty dollars here or there meant nothing to these other parents. I duck my head in case anyone I know is driving in front of the school or stopped at the light and might see me in the back of a police car. DJ sees me do this. \u201cFuck them,\u201d he says. He always gets angry when he\u2019s defensive, when he feels like he\u2019s being attacked. The police car doesn\u2019t pull into the jail parking lot but the county courthouse across the street. There\u2019s a steep driveway that goes under the walkway between the side of the building that holds six or seven courtrooms and the side that holds the offices of the tax assessor, the county recorder, and the district attorney. I\u2019ve never noticed this driveway before, or the underground area that traverses the whole complex. I dated an assistant DA back in college who showed me all around these buildings, but we never came down here. \u201cWelcome to the tombs,\u201d the deputy says over his shoulder. \u201cWhy are we at the courthouse?\u201d asks DJ. \u201cYou\u2019re going to talk to some detectives, they have some questions for you.\u201d \u201cWe\u2019re not talking to anyone.\u201d I don\u2019t say anything as DJ and the deputy glare at each other. \u201cYou\u2019re not going to talk to the detectives?\u201d Another deputy walks out of the tombs and up to the car as the driver lowers the window. \u201cWhat\u2019s the problem?\u201d \u201cHe says he doesn\u2019t want to answer any questions.\u201d \u201cWhat about her?\u201d The deputy nods at me. \u201cShe\u2019s not answering questions either,\u201d says DJ. Normally, as a good feminist, I would tell DJ I can speak for myself, but in this case I can\u2019t speak. Even though it\u2019s a bright sunny day outside, it is dark and eerie under the courthouse. I don\u2019t like this place they call the tombs, and I definitely don\u2019t want to go inside. The deputies and DJ argue, and I open my mouth to finally speak, but nothing comes out. \u201cIt will be easier for you if you talk to the detectives.\u201d \u201cLike I said at the house, we\u2019re not talking without our attorney.\u201d DJ sounds important when he says this, and confident, but as far as I know we don\u2019t have an attorney. The deputy from the tombs shrugs and steps away from the car. \u201cTake them over to the jail and book \u2019em.\u201d DJ smiles like he\u2019s won something. Until recently he was a mortgage broker, so that smarmy look comes easily to him. It\u2019s a one-minute drive over to the county jail. The deputy pulls up to the side of the building. \u201cI\u2019m going to take you in one at a time. Do not make eye contact or talk to anyone in the sally port. There are cameras everywhere. We will see if you drop anything. We will see if you send a signal to anyone.\u201d I have no idea what a sally port is and who or what we would be signaling. He takes DJ out of the back seat on the driver\u2019s side first and then in through some double doors. They are tinted so I can\u2019t see what\u2019s on the other side. I swivel my head around looking for who I\u2019m not supposed to signal or make eye contact with. All I see are police cars from all the different cities that make up this county\u2014Watsonville, Santa Cruz, Capitola\u2014but Aptos isn\u2019t incorporated, it\u2019s a village technically, so it\u2019s under the domain of the sheriff. The other police cars are empty. I stare out the front window and then, one by one, I see three women poke their heads around the side of the building and then step out in front of me. They are wearing green pants and white shirts\u2014like they are nurses or doctors. One of the women waves to me, but I can\u2019t wave back. She has huge brown eyes and long, thick brown hair pulled into a high ponytail. The other two glance over at me then look away. They are wearing some kind of black hairnet and are discussing something intensely. All three women crouch down and look under the cars and then bolt upright and back around the building when the double doors slide open. The high ponytail woman pokes her head out one more time, grinning, and waves at me again as the deputy walks over to open the passenger-side back door. It\u2019s not easy getting out without being able to use my arms. I\u2019m weak and definitely haven\u2019t been doing my squats, but I manage to stand and when I stumble a little, the deputy grabs my bicep tightly. Too tightly. He drags me stumbling toward the double doors, and they open automatically. We step inside and they quickly close behind us. There\u2019s another set of double doors. I wait for them to open but they don\u2019t. We stand there awkwardly. After a few minutes pass I take a deep breath. \u201cCan you tell me where my son is, where they took him?\u201d He ignores me. \u201cPlease,\u201d I beg, and my voice catches on the word. For the first time he looks right in my eyes and growls, \u201cYou will never see him again.\u201d I start to cry. \u201cPlease, just tell me where he is, tell me if he\u2019s okay.\u201d He slowly looks me up and down. My hair is still a rat\u2019s nest piled on top of my head. I\u2019m wearing an old T-shirt, loose sweatshirt, and baggy pajama bottoms. I know my eyes are red and swollen from crying. A look of disgust comes over his face. \u201cHe is better off without you. You should not be anyone\u2019s mother.\u201d He gives my bicep a hard squeeze as he says this, and then the double doors open and he pushes me inside. I want to push back but I don\u2019t. I want to scream in protest, but all I can see in my mind is Kaden reaching out for me as he was taken away. Dylan, Cody, and Ty will be out of school by now. They must know what\u2019s happened. The deputy\u2019s words echo in my head. I will never see Kaden again. I will never see any of my boys again. I should not be anyone\u2019s mother. I know what he says is true, and I hang my head. A tsunami of shame and grief and guilt and loss washes over me, and then there is nothing but numbness. I am grateful for the numbness. I am nobody\u2019s mother. I am nothing. I get my picture taken and press each finger into black ink and onto a little card, and then I am locked in a cold cell the size of a changing room at Target. There\u2019s a little window in the door and a pay phone on the wall and a bench in one corner. I sit on the bench and move my wrists in circles now that I am out of the handcuffs. Nothing happens for what feels like hours, and once in a while I peek out the window and see deputies come and go. If I tilt my head to the right, I can barely see another door with a small window and what I think is DJ\u2019s face pressed against it. I stare at the pay phone. I don\u2019t know who I\u2019m supposed to call\u2014who I could call. I shiver. It\u2019s been roughly twelve hours since I last smoked heroin, and I\u2019m about to start detoxing. I\u2019ve never detoxed from heroin, but I\u2019ve quit pills a million times so I think it will probably feel the same. Cold shivers, body aches, runny nose\u2014basically the flu on steroids. I have a strong constitution, though, so I\u2019ve always been able to hold my liquor, take twenty Vicodin and sound normal, detox, and not get too ravaged. I come from a long line of hardy Scandinavian women. I am descended from women who survived because they didn\u2019t pass out in front of a Viking. I finally stand and pick up the pay phone. I don\u2019t have money, so I press zero for the operator. \u201cI need to place a collect call,\u201d I say. I tell her the phone number and my name, and after a few minutes I hear the muted sound of a phone ringing. No one answers. \u201cCan you try again?\u201d I ask the operator. \u201cShe just doesn\u2019t recognize the number.\u201d I hear the far-off sound of a phone ringing again and then, finally, it stops. \u201cHello?\u201d My mom has always answered the phone as if the house was on fire around her. \u201cI have a collect call from Lara Love,\u201d the operator says. \u201cDo you accept the charges?\u201d There is a long pause before she answers. \u201cYes, I accept.\u201d I wait a few seconds for the operator to hang up although I don\u2019t know how collect calls work. Maybe she has to stay on to keep us connected. I would listen to collect calls if I had her job. I mean, how could you not? \u201cMom?\u201d \u201cHold on,\u201d my mom says. I can hear her fumbling and then the click of a lighter and a long drag on a Marlboro. I feel the same old annoyance at her smoking that I have felt since I was a kid. But then I remember where I am: no place to judge. \u201cMom\u2026\u201d My voice cracks, and I feel the tears start all over again. \u201cI don\u2019t have any money,\u201d she says. \u201cYour bail is two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.\u201d \u201cWhat?\u201d \u201cDJ\u2019s mom called me. You know I don\u2019t have that kind of money. Oh, Lara, this must be a mistake. Carol said there was a gun in the back of your car.\u201d \u201cWhat are you talking about?\u201d \u201cYou have gun charges against you. And drugs and robbery and\u2026\u201d Her voice fades off, and I don\u2019t know what to say. \u201cWe don\u2019t have any guns, that\u2019s wrong.\u201d I listen as she takes a long drag again and blows it heavily into the phone. \u201cWhat about Kaden?\u201d I ask. \u201cDid she say anything to you about Kaden, about where he is? Or the other boys?\u201d \u201cNo.\u201d \u201cCan you please call her back and ask her? I\u2019m sure she\u2019s talking to DJ. And then I\u2019ll call you back.\u201d \u201cI can\u2019t deal with this tonight, Lara. It\u2019s too much. There\u2019s nothing I can do. This must be DJ\u2019s fault.\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s not, Mom. This is all my fault.\u201d I start to cry again. The little holding cell echoes with my sobs and a high-pitched wail that comes from somewhere deep inside me. I try to say \u201cMom\u201d again, but I am choking on my tears and snot. I try to get it together, but I can\u2019t. My mom doesn\u2019t say a word, or if she does I can no longer hear her. I hang up and slide down the wall to the floor. I\u2019m grateful she can\u2019t call me back. Grateful no one can reach me in this place. I lift my forehead a few inches and then bring it down hard against the cement floor. I do this a few more times and although it hurts, I\u2019m too weak to do any real damage so I just lie on the floor and do something I haven\u2019t done since I was a kid. I pray. The same prayer that\u2019s probably been said a billion times in every little holding cell in every jail throughout the world. \u201cHelp,\u201d I pray. \u201cPlease help\u2026\u201d I am still curled up on the floor hours later when the door opens. A female guard brings in an older woman who is obviously drunk. She\u2019s wearing a sparkly cocktail dress, and her eyes are watery, and her mascara is smeared in such a way that each eye looks like a smiley face. I stand up, thinking the guard must be taking me out if she\u2019s bringing this woman in but she shuts the door quickly, and the woman and I are both left in this tiny room. \u201cHi,\u201d she says brightly. I sit down on the bench and press myself as far against the back wall as I can and keep my eyes down. The woman sighs loudly and then immediately picks up the pay phone. \u201cHello? Hello?\u201d she yells into the receiver. \u201cHello?\u201d \u201cYou have to dial zero,\u201d I say. \u201cAnd then give the operator the number for a collect call.\u201d The woman smiles at me and sways a little bit on her heels. I look down again so she can be messy-drunk with a little privacy. She tells the operator the number and slurs her name. Helen comes out as Schmelen, so she says it again and then kicks off her shoes while she waits. \u201cJohnnie, it\u2019s me Schmelen, Johnnieeeeee! I was at the Hindquarter and I had a couple of cocktails before schdinner and maybe one glass of schwine, and they pulled me over and said I was schweaving in traffic. I\u2019m at the schnail.\u201d Helen goes silent while Johnnie responds, and she tries to put her shoes back on but ends up kicking one so that it rolls over and lands near my foot. \u201cI am not a drunk driver who drives drunk,\u201d Helen screams into the phone. \u201cCome get me right now, this is ridiculumous!\u201d Helen slams the phone down and bends over to grab her shoe. She plops down on the bench next to me. \u201cWhy is it so cold in here?\u201d I shrug. I have never been good at small talk. Helen looks me up and down, pauses on my swollen eyes. \u201cSo whass happened to you?\u201d I don\u2019t know how to answer this question. \u201cIs this your first time in the schnail?\u201d I nod. \u201cMe too, and it\u2019s so ridiculust, I am not drunk. I just went out to dinner with some of my girlfriends.\u201d The whole cell smells like alcohol, but I\u2019m not going to point out the obvious, so I just nod again. \u201cSo what happened to you?\u201d \u201cI was arrested at home. They wouldn\u2019t let me call someone to pick up my three-year-old son. I have no idea where he is.\u201d Helen is immediately outraged on my behalf. \u201cThat\u2019s ridiculous, they shouldn\u2019t not do that\u2014why can\u2019t you call someone and say that?\u201d I start to cry again, and Helen pats my back a few times. \u201cWe\u2019ll be out of here soon, and you can get your son, and I can get my car back. Can you believe they had it towed? Do the police have nothing better to dos? It\u2019s outragulous, and I need my car!\u201d I smile weakly at her. \u201cThere you go. See, it\u2019s all not going to be not okay.\u201d I can\u2019t even unwrap her double negative, but I close my eyes and pretend she\u2019s right for a minute. The door opens and it\u2019s the same female deputy who brought in Helen. \u201cLove, let\u2019s go!\u201d \u201cSee,\u201d says Helen. \u201cYou can go get your son now. Good lucks to you!\u201d I give Helen a little wave and walk out the door. I know I\u2019m not being released but I don\u2019t want to ruin her happy-drunk vibe with the truth. The deputy walks me into a small room. Shelves line the walls, and there are stacks of maroon clothing organized by size. It\u2019s like a small sad thrift store. She hands me a shirt and a pair of pants. Then she opens a drawer and pulls out a gray sports bra and a pair of giant green underwear and hands them to me. \u201cTake everything off and put your things in this bag.\u201d She hands me a used brown paper bag and I look around to see where I\u2019m supposed to change. \u201cGo ahead, take everything off.\u201d I\u2019m awkwardly holding the new clothes and the brown bag and there\u2019s nothing to set anything down on. \u201cHere?\u201d I ask. She gives me a weird look and nods. I drop the brown bag and set the pile of jail clothes on the floor. I start to turn around but the deputy stops me. \u201cFace forward, remove all your clothes and put them in the bag.\u201d I pull off my sweatshirt and T-shirt at the same time. I\u2019m not wearing a bra. I put them in the bag. The guard stares at me. I slide my sweatpants down but leave my socks on. I wasn\u2019t wearing shoes when they arrested me. \u201cTake off the socks too.\u201d I take those off and put them and my sweats in the bag. I don\u2019t fold anything\u2014just shove it inside the bag. I am freezing now. I\u2019ve lost so much weight in the last year that my hip bones and collarbones protrude and I actually have a six-pack. I don\u2019t work out, but without any body fat it looks like I do. I bend over to pick up the maroon pants but the deputy stops me. \u201cSquat down,\u201d she says. \u201cWhat?\u201d \u201cSquat down. Knees out.\u201d I do what she says. \u201cStand up, turn around, and then bend over pulling your ass cheeks apart.\u201d I do it, and she doesn\u2019t say anything, so I just stay bent over. For some reason I think of Helen. I hope she doesn\u2019t have to do this. She will definitely fall. \u201cOkay, get dressed.\u201d I quickly pull on the giant underwear, pull the sports bra over my head, and step into the maroon pants and shirt. \u201cPut the T-shirt on first.\u201d I didn\u2019t realize that under the stiff maroon pullover was a brown cotton T-shirt. I put that on instead. \u201cYou have to put the red on when you leave your cell. This is your ID card. Keep it with you and make sure you have it every time you leave your cell.\u201d I look at her blankly. \u201cNow put your red shirt on.\u201d I do as she says and then put my ID card in the front pocket without looking at it. She hands me a pair of slip-on woven sandals. \u201cPut these on and follow me.\u201d I slide on the sandals and look at my toenails sticking out and cringe\u2014I have definitely deprioritized mani-pedis during my criminal phase. Who knew jail would be open toe? She picks up my bag of clothes with gloved hands and carries it under one arm. I walk behind her, back out to the main part of the jail. She hands the bag to another deputy behind the front desk. \u201cLove,\u201d she says. He laughs. \u201cWhat?\u201d \u201cLast name is Love.\u201d She shrugs. He takes a black Magic Marker and writes my last name on the bag and throws it on the counter behind him. I see there\u2019s another bag marked Jackson. DJ must have already done all of this. \u201cLet\u2019s go.\u201d I follow her through a series of locked doors. They get buzzed open and closed from somewhere else. Each door we walk through slams shut behind me, and there\u2019s a loud grating noise as it locks. I startle every time. \u201cFollow the yellow line,\u201d she says, pointing to a painted line on the slate-gray floor. I walk along the line down hallways that lead through two more sets of loud, locking doors. Finally, we enter a large circular room. In the center of the room are steps leading up to a raised pavilion of some kind. There are two guards behind glass windows in front of what looks like computer monitors. I look around and see that the circular room is more like a hexagon, with a thick door and window on each section. There\u2019s a clock on the wall\u2014it\u2019s 2 a.m. I wonder where Kaden is sleeping. It\u2019s been twelve hours since he was taken. How did he get to sleep? I imagine him all alone. I imagine strangers hurting him. A cold terror engulfs me. I frantically look around. I have to get out of here. I have to get to him. Behind one of the windows DJ is waving to me. \u201cNo communication with other inmates. No signals, no signs, nothing,\u201d the deputy yells, waving at DJ to back away from the window. A male guard steps out of the pavilion and hands what looks like a yoga mat and a sheet and blanket to the deputy. \u201cHere you go. We don\u2019t have any mugs or hygiene. We\u2019ll get them in the morning. He turns his head and yells into his shoulder, \u201cOpening G!\u201d My escort deputy grabs the mat from him and shoves it into my arms. \u201cLet\u2019s go,\u201d she says, and we walk over to one side of the hexagon. The door groans loudly as it opens. \u201cWelcome to G block,\u201d she says, and pushes me inside. I am in a large semicircular room. There are faint lights on the ceiling and to my right a stairway leads to a long balcony with six doors. Right under the balcony is a lower level with another six doors. Between those doors and me is what looks like a school cafeteria\u2014a cluster of small tables bolted to the floor. Between the cafeteria tables and the closed doors are about ten bunk beds, forming a perimeter around the entire room. I look behind me, but the deputy is gone. I have no idea what I\u2019m supposed to do. I can\u2019t tell if there are people in the beds or not\u2014if there are, they aren\u2019t moving. I take a few steps forward and then freeze. \u201cHey.\u201d I hear a muffled voice coming from somewhere in front of me and look around in the dark. I can\u2019t see anyone, but I hear the voice again. \u201cHey!\u201d I walk through the group of tables and stop in front of the ring of bunk beds. The bunk to my left is empty\u2014just a bare metal grate. I throw my skinny yoga mat mattress on top and see that the mat fits into the frame perfectly. I throw the thin sheet and blanket on top as well. I have no idea if this is my assigned bed. \u201cHey!\u201d The voice sounds closer but still muffled. I walk between the bunk beds and stop in front of the row of doors. Each door has a small square window three-quarters of the way up, and I scan back and forth until I see a woman\u2019s face in the door to my left. Her face fills the entire square, and I can see that she\u2019s saying something, but it\u2019s too muffled to hear. I walk closer. She gives me a little wave and then points her finger down. I don\u2019t know if she\u2019s the welcome wagon or what. Is she going to tell me where to sleep? I look down on the ground in front of me where I think she\u2019s pointing but don\u2019t see anything. She points again and raises her eyebrows at me and then waves me closer. I get a little closer and she points down at my waist. I have no idea what she wants but I definitely do not want to take my clothes off again. I shake my head at her, but she just points down again. She holds a finger to her lips telling me to be quiet. I am so confused. I take another step and reach my hand out to the door, thinking she wants me to open it. I turn the knob and pull but it doesn\u2019t budge. I try again. She immediately starts to laugh, and suddenly her voice isn\u2019t muffled. It\u2019s loud. I look around me and I see other faces pressed to the windows. \u201cTry mine next,\u201d someone yells. More laughter. I\u2019m embarrassed but have no idea what I\u2019ve done. The girl in the window laughs and flips me off. I return to my bunk. \u201cCome open my door,\u201d yells another voice, and there\u2019s more laughter. \u201cShut the fuck up,\u201d a voice yells from one of the top bunks across the room. I look around and see about ten women sitting up in various bunks\u2014all looking at me. Some are laughing. I didn\u2019t know then that the bunk beds are called the freeway\u2014where the lower class of inmates sleep. Those with no connections, no street cred, and first-timers like me who are unknown and automatically suspect. I don\u2019t know that the Black girls, the Bible thumpers, the homeless transients, and the harmless mentally ill are also kept out here. Jail is a class system, and a study in racial segregation worthy of the South in the 1950s. There are rules I don\u2019t know. A system I can\u2019t comprehend. A hustle I have never learned. A power structure that is somewhere between an adolescent sleepover party and being jumped into a gang. I quickly lie down in my bunk and pull the blanket over my head. I have no idea that my one little gesture\u2014trying to open a locked cell door\u2014told everyone in G block all they needed to know about me. I have never been to jail before and I\u2019ve brought nothing in\u2014meaning there\u2019s no stash of drugs packed in my vagina that I could use to establish myself, work my hustle, flex my power, or be invited to move into one of the locked-door cells that had more privacy. Under the blanket, my mind runs through the last twelve hours, starting with the knock on the door and ending with the woman in the cell flipping me off. Maybe I am dead, and this is my bespoke hell. \n chapter 5 COUNTRY MUSIC HELL Hank Williams Jr. is in my house. My head is pounding, and I\u2019m not sure if I\u2019m awake or asleep. I reach my arm out to my right to see if Kaden has climbed into bed again, and my hand hits cold cement. Cold cement. I sit up wildly, a scream building in the back of my throat, and the top of my head scrapes across hard metal. I imagine Kaden waking up somewhere with strangers. I worry again that someone has hurt him in the night, and there is a thickness in my throat that I can\u2019t swallow away. I slowly look around G block. To my left is a woman sitting up in the bottom of another bunk bed. She has long, stringy brown hair. She\u2019s slowly licking a green Jolly Rancher and staring at me from behind the brown curtain of her hair. Her eyes glitter with hatred. In front of all the cafeteria tables and right below the side of the stairway, there is a television mounted on the wall. In front of it four women are singing along to a country music video and performing a synchronized dance routine. I look around to see if there\u2019s some kind of brochure or instructions about what I should do next. I have to pee, but I have no idea where I\u2019m supposed to do that. Apart from the girl with the Jolly Rancher, nobody looks my way as I sit up in bed. I feel lost. How did I get so lost? I stare at the country music video. It\u2019s a man sitting on a barstool singing to a bartender about breaking parole. The four women are singing along at the top of their lungs with their arms locked together and shuffling right and then left with some complicated crossover foot movement in the middle. Three women on the top-tier balcony start clapping and yelling \u201cyeehaw!\u201d They join in on the chorus about jacking keys and crashing a car. A guard opens the main door into G block, and the women on the balcony start dancing and then singing even louder. As he walks across the floor below, they scream the lyrics at him. \u201cThat\u2019s enough. Quiet down!\u201d he yells, but the girls just sing louder and do a weaving do-si-do with each other. The final lyrics are about going back to the pen to see friends. The guard doesn\u2019t yell again, just shakes his head while the song finishes. He walks in front of the bottom row of doors and peeks in each window if the door is closed. He opens one door and snarls at the woman inside, \u201cNo covering the window. Take it down!\u201d He points to a postcard in the window. I can\u2019t see the picture on her side, but on the white side that faces out red block letters say: WISH YOU WERE HERE. My tears start again, so I lie back down and turn toward the wall. My mind races, wondering if Kaden thinks we are gone forever, that we\u2019ve just given him away or that he\u2019s been stolen. He\u2019s at that age where he turns his head away if a stranger talks to him. He can only fall asleep if someone lightly scratches his arm. I can\u2019t endure these thoughts, so I sit back up in my bunk. The woman with the Jolly Rancher is still staring at me, and she slowly pulls it out of her mouth and holds it up to show me the sharp point she\u2019s fashioned. She angles it toward me. Over and over, she air-shanks me with her little green sticky shiv. I stay in my bed all day. I don\u2019t eat when they bring food in on trays for breakfast. I don\u2019t eat lunch either. No one speaks to me. I turn my back to the room and face the cement wall. Eventually, I have to get up to pee. I can only hold it so long. I do a long, slow walk around the room, trying to be cool, but really I\u2019m just looking for the bathroom. The other girls stop talking when I walk by them, and then they whisper and stare. I am sure they are talking about me. At its core, addiction is an extreme form of self-obsession. We addicts are pathologically self-absorbed, self-serving, selfish, and all the other self- words. The drug is our secret lover, our treasured best friend, and our primary relationship. We live in service to that relationship, and it drives and colors every interaction we have. Are you a friend or foe to my using? Will you help me or thwart me? Like any compulsion, the rituals of using are a solace. How could anyone else ever understand our terminal uniqueness? So of course I think they are talking about me\u2014matching the running commentary in my own mind. I listen to snatches of conversation as I walk: Apparently, Jolly Rancher hasn\u2019t showered in four days, and a group of girls\u2014the ones who were dancing on the top tier\u2014are planning an intervention. They are going to force-shower her while one girl keeps lookout. I have always been good at eavesdropping and reading lips, and I can usually see schemes unfolding. I am a master at subtext and plot and body language, so I know the stringy-haired girl is about to get a very violent and cold washing. Even though I am freezing, many of the girls have stripped down to their sports bras. I pick up that the non-showered girl also didn\u2019t turn in her old clothes for new ones in the last two clothing exchanges. This, along with a general lack of personal hygiene, has made her the biggest problem in G block. I don\u2019t dare walk up the stairs to the top tier. I don\u2019t know if that\u2019s allowed, but I do notice there\u2019s a mop bucket at the bottom of the stairs. One girl with short brown hair, styled like Victoria Beckham, sees me looking at the bucket. \u201cWe used to have a big container of bleach next to that,\u201d she says, \u201cbut someone did something stupid and got the bleach thrown in her face.\u201d I\u2019m not sure how to reply. Is she threatening me? I don\u2019t meet her eyes and instead stare at the large black spider tattooed on her throat. The spider\u2019s legs wrap around to the back of her neck, and when she smiles, it looks like two of the legs are moving toward her face from under her chin. Is she the one who threw the bleach? These women don\u2019t look particularly scary or violent, but I have no idea if I\u2019m surrounded by killers and bleach throwers. Really the only person who sort of threatened me did so with a piece of candy. One girl who looks to be about six months pregnant is playing cards with two other women, who could pass for twins. What happens when she has her baby? Will the baby be in some sort of baby jail, or will CPS take the baby away as soon as it\u2019s born? I smile back at the spider-face girl and nod knowingly about people who do stupid things and get bleach thrown in their face. I also notice a hot pot of water on a small table next to the mop bucket. Not boiling water apparently, but hot enough that two girls who smuggled in some contraband real coffee into the unit are using the corner of a bedsheet as a filter to make some fresh brew. I come to a row of phones on the wall. I know I should call my mom back since I just hung up on her yesterday. But these aren\u2019t pay phones, so I just stand in front of them looking stupid. I pick up a receiver and hold it to my ear. \u201cYou need to dial your S number to make a call. Do you have minutes?\u201d It\u2019s spider girl being helpful again, but I smile and shrug like she\u2019s speaking a foreign language. \u201cOn your ID card.\u201d I pull the card out of my shirt pocket. There\u2019s a number on it below my picture. I dial it into the phone and follow the recorded instructions for placing a collect call. My mom answers right away but takes a long time to accept the charges. I imagine she\u2019s grasping for her cigarettes and lighter. There\u2019s no privacy in the room so I whisper into the phone when she says hello. \u201cHi.\u201d She says hello back and then asks if I know how much the charges might be. \u201cI don\u2019t have a lot of money,\u201d she adds. \u201cI know. I\u2019ll be quick. Have you talked to Carol or anyone?\u201d \u201cI spoke to Carol again this morning. Your bail is still set at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. For each of you.\u201d \u201cWhat? That doesn\u2019t make sense.\u201d \u201cCarol is pretty furious. Lala, what did you do?\u201d She hasn\u2019t used my childhood nickname in a long time. \u201cI can\u2019t really talk about that now,\u201d I say. I don\u2019t want to talk in front of everyone, and I don\u2019t want to start crying. \u201cCarol said the felony charges add up to twenty-seven years in prison. I don\u2019t have money for an attorney, you know that. I don\u2019t know what to do.\u201d She starts to cry a little. I can\u2019t deal with her tears. All I want to do is hang up and get back in bed. \u201cCall me back later if you can. I\u2019ll see what else I can find out.\u201d \u201cMom\u2026\u201d I stop speaking for a second and swallow the lump in my throat. I take a big breath. \u201cDid she say where Kaden is?\u201d I don\u2019t ask her about my older boys because I know they\u2019re with their dad. My mom is silent now except for her own big inhale of nicotine. \u201cNo, she has no idea.\u201d I need to get off the phone and back to my cement wall. I cannot cry in front of all these women. \u201cI love you, Mom, and I\u2019m so sorry\u2026\u201d \u201cOh, Lara\u2026\u201d She starts to say more but I hang up. My eyes are swimming with tears, and I stumble my way back to bed. Twenty-seven years. I start doing the math in my head. Kaden would be almost thirty-one, Ty forty, Cody forty-three, Dylan forty-four. This cannot be real. I didn\u2019t kill anyone. My boys are going to grow up without me. I have lost them all. When a new guard comes in the afternoon and hands me a clear plastic bag, I inspect it closely. There\u2019s a roll of toilet paper, a toothbrush, a small, unmarked tube of what I\u2019m guessing is toothpaste, a tiny bar of soap, and a plastic razor. I pull the razor out and twist and pull the top apart to see if there\u2019s an actual razor in there that I can use but there\u2019s not. There\u2019s also a small pen and a few pages of notepaper in the bag. The pen is just the plastic inside of a pen, and it\u2019s hard to hold or write with. I try anyway. I write my boys\u2019 names across the top of a sheet of paper. Dylan. Cody. Ty. Kaden. I rub my finger across their names slowly. The last seventeen years play across my mind. Birthday parties and karate lessons and baseball games and basketball tournaments and school plays and vacations. I tried so hard to be who they needed me to be. I tried to be the right kind of mother. But I\u2019ve just failed. I\u2019ve failed them and I\u2019ve failed at life. Dear Boys, I\u2019m so sorry. I love you more than anything in the whole wide world. I pray that addiction never gets ahold of you. Always take care of each other. I love you so much. Mom I have decided to end my life. It feels like the best decision I have made in a long time. I want that sweet relief. I can\u2019t take another moment of not knowing where Kaden is, of thinking I won\u2019t see my boys again until they are grown men. I am freezing cold, and my head aches, and I feel like I won\u2019t ever sleep again. Every part of my body hurts, but the pain in my mind is the most unbearable. I read the letter again. My spark has gone out. Even in the day-to-day misery of addiction, there was a little spark that kept me going. Now I feel no inner strength or spark or flicker of anything resembling hope. I am a black hole that has swallowed all the light, and I want a quick end to my dark life. It sounds dramatic, but it doesn\u2019t feel dramatic. It just feels right. As I form my suicide plan, a peace washes over me. My mind stops racing, my nausea goes away, even the chills and headache disappear. I float on a calm black lake of no thought. I fold the note carefully and tuck it under my pillow. Someone will find it after I\u2019m dead, and my boys will know I thought of them, that in my last moments I had nothing but love for them. When I imagine their lives without me, it feels better, easier for them to have a dead mom than a prison mom. After everyone is asleep I\u2019m going to walk up the stairs and hang myself from the top railing with my bedsheet. At 10 p.m. the guard comes in and yells \u201cLights out!\u201d I am wide awake when he comes back at eleven and again at midnight. I figure out the routine. He walks around the freeway, peeks in all the locked-door windows, then walks upstairs and checks all those rooms. It takes about five minutes every time he makes his rounds. After the 1 a.m. check, I wait a few minutes until after he leaves and then I sit up in bed. I slowly wrap the sheet around my neck, tying it in what I hope are six strong knots. I can still hear some girls whispering, so I lie back down to wait until it\u2019s quiet. I tell myself that I will be gone within the hour, and a little thrill courses through me. I\u2019ve never been overly afraid of death\u2014have always thought of it as this next big adventure where the mysteries of the universe will be revealed. I don\u2019t believe in heaven or hell. I believe we are all energy coming back lifetime after lifetime until we learn what we need to learn. I need to take a mulligan on this lifetime. The only thing that ever scared me about death was the idea of my boys missing me, hurting because I was gone. But I\u2019m already gone, so I believe this will be easier for them, cleaner. I lie in my bunk and try to remember the first time I took an opiate. I had knee surgery in high school after tearing a ligament playing lacrosse, but I don\u2019t remember taking anything for pain after surgery, although I must have. The fact that I don\u2019t remember the pills means I took them as prescribed, and they simply did their job. In my second year of graduate school I tore the same ligament. I was skipping down a hallway and the previously repaired ligament simply gave out. It required surgery, even though I was four months pregnant with Dylan, and when they hooked me up to a morphine pump I refused to press the button. The orthopedic surgeon and my ob-gyn both assured me it wouldn\u2019t hurt the baby. The nurses tried to get me to push the button, but I wouldn\u2019t. I do remember the first time I took a pain pill when I wasn\u2019t in pain. I was in Visalia, California. I was not married to Dylan\u2019s father; in fact, we had only spent a few weeks together for what was supposed to be a summer fling before I found out I was pregnant. I had a baby daddy before baby daddies were a thing. Bryan and I barely knew each other; we were both twenty-four-year-old wannabe writers and broke. His family was meeting their grandchild and me for the first time. I had just finished graduate school, was carrying an extra forty pounds of baby weight on my sleep-deprived body, and not feeling like my best self. And while I was madly in love with my baby, I was distant with his dad. Bryan had cheated on me during the pregnancy, and I was hurt and guarded with him. I wanted so badly to create the family I never had, but I had no skills to do that. Our relationship was supposed to just be a one-night stand, but I had fallen in love with the possibility of being loved. And on the night we had drunkenly conceived, a beautiful curly-haired toddler had appeared in my dreams. I was filled with a love I had never experienced before, and when I woke up, hungover, I ached for that little boy in my dream. I missed him desperately. When I found out a few weeks later that I was pregnant, I knew instantly I would have the baby and that he would be a boy. Bryan\u2019s dad and grandfather adored the baby, and they proudly took a photo of four generations of men carrying the Love surname. It was beautiful, and my family-starved soul was happy my son would have this Love legacy. He would have a family. But I felt like Oliver Twist with his hands out begging for food. The Loves were skeptical and suspicious of me, and worried for Bryan that because we were not married, I could eventually take the baby from all of them. On the second day of our visit, I used the master bathroom and there on the counter was a giant prescription bottle of Percocet. Hundreds of pills. I read the label: TAKE 1\u20132 PILLS EVERY FOUR HOURS OR AS NEEDED FOR PAIN. I had no ominous music playing in the background. No precognition of what this tiny pill could do. It was 1991, and the opioid crisis wasn\u2019t yet a crisis. I opened the top and shook out a pill. With a palmful of water from the sink, I swallowed it, dried off my chin with a bath towel, and steeled myself for another dinner with a family who gave me smiles that didn\u2019t quite reach their eyes. Twenty minutes later I felt a rush of warmth and joy and happiness flow through my body. My anxiety evaporated. I told funny stories. I showed intense interest in their vending machine business. The Percocet opened my heart, and I saw a million loving family dinners just like this one. For the first time ever, I really felt like I belonged somewhere. I had taken that pill as needed for pain and my pain had gone away. The next day, as we said our goodbyes and promised to see each other again soon, I still felt the warmth and glow from that one pill. And from the forty pills I had hidden in my purse. As I lay in the dark waiting for everyone to fall asleep, I think about redemption, about second chances, and while I believe in them, I know that this time they are not for me. Redemption is for the good, and deep down I have always known that I am bad. \n chapter 6 MAKEOVER I am stepping off a cliff and falling, falling, falling toward something with teeth. I wave my arms in the air, knowing instantly that this is a horrible mistake. I didn\u2019t mean to step off the edge. I flail and flap and try to reverse course and even though I am screaming the only sound is the scraping and gnashing of giant teeth that rush toward me from below. I am blinded as a giant spotlight rises out of the teeth and hits me straight in the eyes. I jerk upright, startled, and clamp down on a scream. The scraping sound is tall stacks of chairs being moved across the floor. The lights are on, and a guard is yelling, \u201cBreakfast, ladies, rise and shine.\u201d An overhead light blares right in my eyes, and as I turn my head away the entire top sheet of my bed moves with me. It takes a minute for me to realize what\u2019s happening. Chairs. Guards. Breakfast. A sheet tied in six knots around my neck. I quickly lie back down in my bunk and pull the blanket over my head. How could I have fallen asleep? The last thing I remember is waiting for the girls to stop talking. I claw desperately at the knots around my neck, afraid someone might have seen them when I sat up. I am mortified. Embarrassed. I am ashamed that I am still alive. It takes me five minutes to undo all the knots, but it feels like hours. I am sure that when I come out from under my blanket all of G block will be staring at me. Of course, everyone is eating and not looking at the new girl hiding under a blanket on the freeway. It doesn\u2019t cross my mind that I have a suicide note under my pillow, and I should ask for help\u2014I am just angry that I have to endure another twelve or sixteen hours of living until I can try again. I\u2019ve detoxed from opiates before, and there\u2019s no way I should have fallen asleep. It doesn\u2019t feel like a miracle, it feels like punishment. I am shivering and my entire body is aching, so I will also have to endure the worst of detoxing during this long day of being alive. \u201cS-201761!\u201d The guard is yelling some random numbers, but everyone ignores him. \u201cS-201761, get ready for court in ten!\u201d Each syllable feels like a nail to my head and I close my eyes and hope he stops. I don\u2019t know why he has to scream; everyone is quiet in G block. The country music videos haven\u2019t even started up. \u201cLove!\u201d My eyes fly open, and I raise my hand like I\u2019m about to answer a question in school. One of the girls eating at a table sees me and snorts out a laugh. \u201cYou have court in ten. Get ready!\u201d With that the guard walks out of G block. I don\u2019t understand what he means, but I slowly get out of my bunk. The girl who snorted looks at me. \u201cIs Love your last name?\u201d I nod. \u201cThat number he called out is your S-number\u2014it\u2019s on your ID card. If your name is Love there\u2019s no way he\u2019s gonna yell that out if he can help it.\u201d She laughs. \u201cBetter learn your number, because that\u2019s your name now, and you need to bring your ID with you whenever you leave G.\u201d \u201cHe said I have court?\u201d The girl just shrugs and goes back to her breakfast. \u201cHey, I\u2019m Nina.\u201d A small girl, not even five feet tall, with a short brown bob that seems strangely freshly styled, stands up from the table. \u201cThey take you to your court dates in the morning, but you could be in the tombs all day. You might want to eat something and like, fix your hair or something.\u201d She waves vaguely at my face and hair, and I\u2019m instantly embarrassed. I find the door to the communal bathroom for the freeway dwellers, and two girls standing in the corner together scurry out without saying a word to me. Later I will find out that this is the one part of G block where the cameras can\u2019t see you if you live on the freeway. This corner is where girls will go to fight or squash a potential fight, to share their drugs, or to plot and plan. There is a semblance of a mirror above the sink. The toilet is out in the open. The locked-door cells each have a toilet and sink in them. Going to the bathroom in public is one of the joys of incarceration. I have the bladder of a sloth, so I can go days without using the bathroom. And there\u2019s no water to drink that I know of, so I feel weak and dehydrated. I tell myself I just have to get through the day, and then I can finish what I started last night. I look at myself in the mirror. My hair has been up in a bun since my arrest and I\u2019m afraid to try to take it down. I don\u2019t have a comb or brush. The mirror is made of murky metal, not glass, and it shows a warped version of my face that probably looks better than I actually do right now. My eyes are red and painful and watering constantly from the detox. I lean over the sink and splash water on my face. Even this minimal exertion leaves me exhausted. I pat water on my tangled hair. I don\u2019t know what else to do. A girl walks in the bathroom and I startle. \u201cHey,\u201d she says. \u201cHey.\u201d \u201cYou done with the mirror?\u201d I nod yes and go over to the toilet. I really do need to pee; even sloths have their limits. She is carrying a cup and a pack of colored pencils. I watch as she takes out a black pencil, dips it in the cup, then uses the pencil as eyeliner. She then takes out a red pencil and dips it and then draws circles on each cheek and rubs them with her fingers. She dips the pencil again and it becomes lip liner. She takes out a pink pencil and dips it and that becomes lipstick. She then takes the white pencil, dips it in the cup, and uses it to whiten up the corners of each eye. I\u2019m still on the toilet. I\u2019m done peeing, but I\u2019m transfixed by her makeover. Plus, it\u2019s just a nice place to rest. \u201cYou have court?\u201d she asks when she\u2019s finished. I nod yes. \u201cMe too. Do you want me to do your makeup? No offense, but you are looking a little ragged.\u201d I wipe and pull up my pants. \u201cSure, thanks,\u201d I say and walk over to the sink. She steps away while I wash my hands. There\u2019s nothing to dry them with so I wipe them on my pants. \u201cLet me get some more hot water.\u201d She walks out of the communal bathroom, leaving her pack of colored pencils, and comes back a minute later with the cup. \u201cYou need really hot water for the pencil color, so I have to get it out of the hot pot, not the sink.\u201d I nod like this makes perfect sense to me. \u201cSo what do you want?\u201d \u201cUmm, maybe just some color on my cheeks.\u201d She laughs. \u201cYeah, you\u2019re looking a little gray. Meth?\u201d \u201cNo.\u201d \u201cH?\u201d I nod. \u201cWhat\u2019s your name?\u201d \u201cLara.\u201d \u201cIs your last name really Love?\u201d I nod again. She laughs at this. \u201cI\u2019m Kiki or Little K,\u201d she says. \u201cHold still. I don\u2019t have any mascara, they\u2019re out in commissary, but this is better than nothing. There are always lots of homeboys in the tombs, so you gotta look good on court day.\u201d I nod like I know this already. \u201cWhen did you get picked up?\u201d she asks. \u201cYesterday.\u201d \u201cThat\u2019s weird you have court already; it usually takes at least a few days. Has Classification been to see you yet?\u201d I have no idea what she\u2019s talking about, but I\u2019m trying to be cool during my makeover, so I just say no and shrug. She doesn\u2019t ask me what I was arrested for, and I don\u2019t offer any information or think to ask her anything. \u201cLet me just do a little something with those eyes.\u201d Kiki dips various pencils in and out of the cup of hot water and works on my eyes. \u201cJust a little brown in the creases will help and I\u2019m going to use the white to take away all the red. You\u2019ll feel better in a couple of days. Detoxing off H is the worst. I\u2019ll make you a hot water bottle when you get back, it will help with the chills. We save all the OJ containers and fill them from the hot pot. Helps with cramps\u2014although we\u2019re all synced up in here so there\u2019s a shortage once a month\u2014and it helps with the heroin detox. The meth heads just sleep for two weeks with their detox. Lucky bitches.\u201d I take in all this information and look at myself in the mirror. I look much better than I did a few minutes ago. \u201cThanks,\u201d I say. \u201cThanks so much!\u201d Kiki packs up her pencils and walks to the bathroom door. \u201cThis your first time?\u201d she asks. I nod. \u201cDon\u2019t worry. The first few days are the roughest. It will get better.\u201d My eyes start to well up from her kindness, but I blink the tears away so I don\u2019t mess up her work. \u201cBut stay away from Daddy. She likes to make it rough for the newbies. She\u2019ll roll you up if she doesn\u2019t like you.\u201d I don\u2019t know who Daddy is\u2014I only know Nina and Spider Girl and now Kiki\u2014and I don\u2019t know what it means to get rolled up, but I\u2019m not going to ask. Kiki is young and blond and tall and looks like she could be a model if prison clothes were a fashion line. \u201cHow old are you?\u201d I ask. \u201cI\u2019m nineteen.\u201d \u201cWow,\u201d I say. She\u2019s only a couple of years older than Dylan. \u201cI know,\u201d she says. \u201cBut I\u2019ve been in and out of here like ten times already, not to mention juvie. How old are you?\u201d \u201cForty-one,\u201d I say. \u201cWow,\u201d she says back. \u201cI know\u2026\u201d \u201cYou\u2019ll probably be out by the weekend, don\u2019t worry.\u201d She gives me a big smile, and I offer a weak one in return. We walk out of the bathroom together, and I hope the colored pencil makeup will stay on my face through the day. I\u2019m vain enough to want to look my best for my death. The tombs are as grim as their name suggests. Myself, Kiki, and another girl whose name I didn\u2019t know are taken out of G and marched down the yellow line. I don\u2019t know the layout of the jail, but it has lots of twists and turns and what seems like different wings. We are taken into a large room where a female guard puts handcuffs on us. This time my hands are cuffed in front, which, while bad, is still better than before. The cuffs are tight and dig into my wrists. Two shackles with a chain connecting them are snapped around my ankles. We are loaded into a van divided into two sections by a metal grate. Kiki tells me that usually the men are in the other section. She\u2019s disappointed to find it empty after spending so much time on her makeup. Once we\u2019re in the tombs, a new set of guards takes over. Kiki and the other woman are put in a holding cell under the courthouse and I am put in a separate one. I have no idea where I\u2019m going or what will happen. The room is all cement except for a sink and toilet\u2014there is a built-in bench along one side of the room and a clock on the wall that says it\u2019s 8 a.m. I should be dead. I can\u2019t pace because of the shackles, so I just sit on the bench and wait, my legs shaking from the detox. I grab the roll of toilet paper and wipe my runny nose awkwardly, grateful again that my handcuffs are in the front this time. There\u2019s a vent midway up the wall that I can hear voices through. It\u2019s Kiki and the other woman, but I can\u2019t make out what they\u2019re saying. I watch the clock. Nine a.m. Ten a.m. Eleven a.m. Three hours feels like three days. I think this must be how people go crazy. Left alone with their own thoughts and a ticking clock. I start humming the country music songs I\u2019ve already learned in a day. Anything to keep my mind off where I am. Noon. One. Have they forgotten I\u2019m in here? I hobble over to the small window in the door and put my face against it. All I can see is a corridor in both directions. No people. The voices in the vent stopped hours ago so I imagine Kiki is back in G already. I go back to the bench and lay on my side, trying to tuck my knees against my chest to keep warm. Every cell of my body hurts. It\u2019s like a toothache when you don\u2019t know exactly what tooth it is\u2014a dull aching and then a deep pain that flares up for no reason and then returns to the relentless throb of ill-defined agony. I am both restless and exhausted. Right before 2 p.m. the door opens, and I quickly sit up. A guard comes in and hands me a paper bag. \u201cLunch,\u201d she says. \u201cDo you know how much longer I\u2019m going to be in here?\u201d \u201cEmergency CPS court works on its own schedule,\u201d she says cryptically and shuts the door. My heart starts racing. I don\u2019t know if this means Kaden will be in court. If he sees me, he will want to be with me and I can\u2019t bear the thought of him thinking I don\u2019t want to hold him, that I\u2019m rejecting him in some way. I desperately want to see him and know that he\u2019s okay. I look in the bag and see a sandwich of some kind and an apple. I have no appetite for food and no energy to wrestle a sandwich out of a bag in handcuffs. I toss it to the end of the bench and start to lie down again when the door opens. \u201cLove, let\u2019s go.\u201d I stumble a little when I stand and shuffle my way to the door. I am led down a hallway to where a male guard stands outside another door. Next to him is DJ. \u201cUp against the wall,\u201d the guard says. I stand next to DJ and my mouth is too dry to say anything. He looks just as haggard as me, and really pissed off. \u201cAre you okay?\u201d he whispers. I shake my head, and my eyes fill with tears. \u201cNo talking,\u201d the guard yells. \u201cThis is my wife,\u201d DJ growls. \u201cI don\u2019t care. No communicating!\u201d I watch as he and DJ stare each other down. DJ\u2019s eyes are red-rimmed, and he has two days of stubble on his face. He looks like a different man. Harder. Meaner. Angrier. \u201cThis is bullshit,\u201d he mumbles. The guard opens the door and leads us into the courtroom. There is a female judge and I quickly scan the room. No Kaden. No Dylan, Cody, or Ty. Nobody that I recognize. The guard leads us to a row of chairs on the side of the room, where the jury would sit if it were a trial. He makes DJ sit at one end of the row and me at the other. He again tells us no communication of any kind. After the guard walks away, I can see DJ in my peripheral vision trying to get my attention, but despite my many pending felony charges that suggest the contrary, I have always been a rule follower. I keep my eyes down and obey the rule. DJ mutters \u201cBullshit\u201d again under his breath, and I can sense the anger coming off him without even looking. I keep my eyes down but shake my head slightly. I want my idiot husband to shut the fuck up. This is family court. We are being judged as parents, and right now the only thing he is conveying is white-privileged asshole with some rage problems. I know I am one green Jolly Rancher away from looking just like the crazy unwashed girl, and all my pencil makeup is gone now, but I quickly try to smooth my hair back, and put on my best PTA-mom face. My neck is sore from the bedsheet knots, and I\u2019m hoping there are no marks. In front of the judge are two big tables. There\u2019s a man and woman at one of the tables, and two women at the other. Behind them in the general seats of the court are a handful of people I don\u2019t recognize. All are in suits of some kind so I figure they must be court people. One man seems to be staring at me intently. The judge reads off a case number and the woman seated next to the man at the table walks up to a little podium in front of the judge. \u201cIn the matter of Kaden Love Jackson, the minor child, in protective custody\u2026\u201d I lean forward, trying to hear what they are saying. \u201cProtective custody\u2026 age three years and eleven months\u2026 emergency foster care\u2026 multiple serious felony charges\u2026 trash in house\u2026 serious neglect\u2026 left all alone\u2026 drugs\u2026 recommend removal.\u201d A lot of the details she gives are false\u2014our house was not full of trash, he was not left alone\u2014but it doesn\u2019t matter at this point. I am not a good mother simply because I\u2019m wearing shackles and the uniform of the county jail. The attorney goes on and on about my failures as a mother. There\u2019s not a mother I know who hasn\u2019t been mom-shamed in one way or another\u2014it goes with the territory. This is the Olympics of mom-shaming, though, and I look down at my lap, my cheeks burning. I know I would throw myself in front of a bus to save each one of my boys. I would sacrifice my life for theirs, but I couldn\u2019t stop using drugs for them. I don\u2019t know how to reconcile those two truths. The simpler answer is most likely: I am not a good mother. I am a horrible mother. I must love drugs more than I love my children. There\u2019s no other reason for why I am here\u2014for why I didn\u2019t spend the morning making lunches and driving carpool. I deserve to be mom-shamed. DJ starts to yell that it\u2019s not true and the bailiff threatens to pull him out of the courtroom. I kind of hope they do. It\u2019s all going so fast I don\u2019t understand what\u2019s being decided. Another woman walks up and says she\u2019s the attorney for the minor child. Kaden has an attorney. \u201cAnd the other minor children?\u201d the judge asks, shuffling through paperwork as if she\u2019s lost something. I hold my breath, not knowing if Dylan, Cody, and Ty were also taken. Or Hailey and Logan. \u201cThey were not at home when the defendants were arrested and are in the care of a custodial parent so are not subject to CPS proceedings.\u201d The judge nods and looks up from the file. \u201cYour Honor, the defendant\u2019s ex-husband and his wife are currently getting emergency foster care certification and are willing to foster the minor child. We recommend this placement for a minor child with siblings pending a home inspection that is happening this afternoon.\u201d I lift my head quickly, imploring the judge with my eyes to approve this. A bailiff walks over and hands DJ and me each a manila envelope full of documents. I can\u2019t open it and look at the papers with my handcuffs, but I sit upright and try to look like a good mother. Finally, the judge looks over at DJ and me. \u201cThe court is approving the CPS removal of Kaden Love Jackson and orders reunification services pending completion of all the requirements of CPS within one year given the age of the minor child.\u201d A woman from the other table stands. \u201cYour Honor, given that the minor child will be four years old in one month and the parents are in custody, we\u2019d like to ask for the longer time period for reunification services. If we were a month out from here there would be two years to reunify before parenting rights are forfeited.\u201d \u201cBut we are not a month out. I\u2019m afraid the time period is based on the age of the child at time of removal.\u201d I have no idea what any of this means. My mind is only focused on one thing: Kaden is going to get to be with his brothers, not strangers. He won\u2019t be afraid. He won\u2019t be hurt. He won\u2019t be alone. I take my first full deep breath in two days. When I exhale, it is shaky, and tears start to roll down my face. I quickly try to wipe them away and catch the eye of the man sitting in the back seats still staring at me. He gives me a little nod, but I look away. The bailiff brings over a tissue and I take it gratefully. I wipe my eyes and sneak a look at DJ. I can tell he is not happy that his son is going to be living with my ex-husband. He is glaring at Kaden\u2019s attorney. I will him with my mind to look at the big picture\u2014to see why this is such good news. The guard opens the door and waves for us to come out. I look around the courtroom and meet the eyes of the judge. \u201cThe clock is ticking,\u201d she says. \u201cGood luck.\u201d When we get out in the hallway DJ says, \u201cThat was fucking bullshit, they can\u2019t take our son away. Forfeiting parental rights, what the fuck?\u201d \u201cNo talking!\u201d the guard barks. \u201cThis is good, Kaden will be okay,\u201d I say. \u201cBryan will take care of him. He\u2019ll be with his brothers!\u201d The female guard brings me to another holding cell and locks me in. I sit on the bench, my manila envelope in my hands, and I stare at the clock. With each pass of the second hand, I feel the pressure building in my chest, behind my eyes, until finally I can\u2019t hold it any longer. I cry for all the stupid, stupid decisions that got me to this place. I cry for whoever I once was and for who I have now become. I cry because I\u2019m grateful for Bryan stepping up to save Kaden. I cry because I\u2019m in handcuffs, and even if I could read the papers that determine my son\u2019s future, I don\u2019t want to read them. I can\u2019t face whatever words are on these pages, so I cry because I\u2019m a coward. I cry for everything I threw away. I cry because I have never felt so alone and lost. I cry for my four boys and for how thoroughly I have changed the trajectory of their childhoods, of their lives. At home I have pictures of every birthday party, every vacation, every visit to the zoo and the beach and Halloween costumes and Easter egg hunts and Christmas mornings. When somebody once asked me why I kept so many printed pictures I jokingly said, \u201cIt\u2019s so when they are adults I can prove to them they had a happy childhood.\u201d None of those pictures will matter anymore. My arrest changes everything. The future and the past. Mostly I cry because it\u2019s all my fault. There is no one else to blame. There is no one I hate more in this world than the ugly woman I see in the distorted mirror above the sink in this holding cell. She deserves nothing but pain and punishment. There is nothing the court can do to me worse than what I will do to myself. I don\u2019t need a trial. I have already judged myself guilty. I have already been sentenced. When I am done crying, I feel wrung out. The front of my shirt is wet with snot and tears, and my whole body shakes. But my mind is finally quiet. There are no more thoughts left to think. There is only the sound of the ticking clock. \n chapter 7 LOST GIRLS The first time I stole something I was thirteen years old. I had passed my velour tracksuit, Dorothy Hamill\u2013haircut phase and went straight into my awkward phase\u2014long Farrah Fawcett\u2013style flipped bangs, breasts that developed way before I knew how to handle the attention they garnered, and crippling self-consciousness. I was obsessed with clothes, not fashion. I was obsessed with any clothes that weren\u2019t my clothes. My mom was too busy to shop for me, so she would just give me some of her clothes whenever I begged her to go shopping. I wanted to dress like Brooke Shields in The Blue Lagoon\u2014flowing beachy-boho white dresses\u2014but in reality I was dressed more like Dolly Parton in 9 to 5. My mom was into the power suits and shoulder pads of the eighties. My Aunt Jodee was only ten years older than me, and while I was self-consciously peering out at the world from behind my blond bangs, she was a hippie who didn\u2019t care what people thought of her. She had been living on her own in California since the age of sixteen and although I saw her only once every few years, I worshipped everything about her. I wanted to be her. And I coveted every piece of clothing she owned. Faded denim jeans and lacy tank tops and layered T-shirts with an arm full of bangle bracelets. And so, on one visit to see her I stole her favorite pair of jeans. I grabbed them from a bench in the back of the VW van she was living out of and stuffed them in my suitcase. When she couldn\u2019t find them the next day and started looking everywhere for them, I helped her look. When I went back to Massachusetts I pulled them out of the bottom of my suitcase and put them on. All the women on my mom\u2019s side are tiny, so they fit perfectly. Once in a while I would think of her tearing apart her van looking for the jeans, but then I would just put the thought aside. I wore the jeans every single day, along with the white lacy top I had also stolen from her. In them, I felt like I was somebody else, and it was the best feeling in the world. I remember this story while I\u2019m riding in the van back to G. Maybe I was just born a criminal. Was it in my blood all along\u2014was I destined to be bad? Could I trace a line from my aunt\u2019s jeans, to my neighbors\u2019 mail, to facing twenty-seven years in prison? These thoughts exhaust me. I have missed dinner, but there\u2019s about ten girls still sitting at the tables when I walk back in. Kiki, Nina, and others whose names I don\u2019t know. \u201cVivian thought you got out,\u201d says Kiki. She nods over to a woman with long brown hair parted in the middle and giant round eyes, the one who had beckoned me over to her door on my first night. Her skin is smooth and so pale against her brown hair it almost looks translucent. She looks like a Breck shampoo girl from the seventies. \u201cNo,\u201d I say, \u201cI\u2019m not getting out.\u201d \u201cYou have Marigonda?\u201d another woman asks. \u201cWho?\u201d \u201cJudge Marigonda?\u201d \u201cNo,\u201d I say. \u201cMy judge was a woman, Judge Guy.\u201d The women all gasp. \u201cYou had family court in Watsonville?\u201d \u201cEmergency CPS court in Santa Cruz.\u201d The women all exchange looks that I don\u2019t understand. \u201cDid you do something to your child?\u201d The woman who asks this stands up. She\u2019s short and squat and has a completely buzzed haircut. She looks like what I imagine the Buddha would look like if he were in G. \u201cDid you hurt a kid?\u201d She growls this at me. \u201cDaddy, come on\u2026\u201d says Kiki. I don\u2019t know how to answer this question, and everybody stares quietly at me. I look around the tables. \u201cWhen I was arrested\u2026 they took my son, he\u2019s almost four\u2026 I didn\u2019t hurt him\u2026 they just wouldn\u2019t let me call someone\u2026\u201d I swallow. \u201cAnd now they\u2019re saying my charges add up to twenty-seven years in prison.\u201d My body starts to shiver again, and I hang my head. Let them beat me. I don\u2019t care anymore. There is silence for a minute and then all the women start talking at once. \u201cThose fuckers\u2026\u201d \u201cThey just want a case so they can get paid. They wouldn\u2019t let my mom take Jos\u00e9 and now he calls a total stranger Mami.\u201d \u201cThey have three of mine.\u201d Nina gets up, walks over, and hugs me. \u201cWhy don\u2019t you lie down? We\u2019ll make you a hot water bottle. Little K told us you were detoxing from the shit. You want some ramen?\u201d I shake my head and let her pull me over to my bunk. I stand there while she straightens the sheet and blanket. She lifts my pillow and I see the letter to my boys underneath, but she ignores it and sets the pillow back on top of it. \u201cTake off your reds, it will be more comfortable.\u201d She points to my cover shirt I\u2019m wearing over my T-shirt and then grabs the manila envelope out of my hand and sets it at the edge of my bed. I pull the shirt off over my head. She folds it and puts it on top of the envelope. \u201cYou\u2019re skinny, girl. You\u2019re going to have to start eating.\u201d I\u2019m still shivering when I get into bed. Little K comes over with a plastic soda bottle full of water from the hot pot and tucks it in next to my chest then walks back over to the tables. The warmth feels so good that I just clutch it and stare out at the other women. \u201cHey, Love,\u201d says Vivian. \u201cYeah?\u201d \u201cHow much time did they give you?\u201d \u201cTime for what?\u201d \u201cTo reunify\u2014to get your son back.\u201d \u201cOh,\u201d I say. \u201cOne year.\u201d The other women are quiet except for Nina who mutters, \u201cOh fuck\u2026\u201d I lie in bed and watch country music videos until the water bottle cools. Nina comes over to check on me. \u201cYou know,\u201d she says, \u201cI was gang-raped by some guys I thought were my homeboys and got pregnant and my family was so ashamed they kicked me out of the house. I didn\u2019t have anywhere to live so CPS took my son. That\u2019s when I started doing the meth. He\u2019s almost six now.\u201d Nina doesn\u2019t look older than twenty-two, and still has the fullness of her own babyhood in her cheeks. \u201cThat\u2019s not right,\u201d I say. \u201cDid they catch the guys who did it?\u201d She looks at me funny. \u201cWhere you from, girl?\u201d \u201cAptos.\u201d Nina laughs. \u201cHey girls, this one here is reppin\u2019 Aptos.\u201d Everybody laughs, but it\u2019s not a mean laughter, so I laugh also. \u201cPTA gang,\u201d I say weakly and then I freeze for a minute, worrying this might be offensive. Nina laughs harder. \u201cThat\u2019s right, Aptos, whaaattt!? Fuckin\u2019 PTA gang, that\u2019s good.\u201d I smile. \u201cLeah over there is six months pregnant. She gets a double pad to sleep on and extra milk.\u201d Leah waves at me and pats her stomach. I don\u2019t know where she will have her baby and what will happen after. I don\u2019t know if they let babies in here. I imagine Kaden in this room with me. I would give anything to snuggle him in this bunk bed. \u201cNina?\u201d \u201cYeah?\u201d \u201cWhere do I shower?\u201d She points over to a curtain next to the main window that has a view of the guard center. \u201cIn there, but wear your shoes.\u201d \u201cHow do I get a towel?\u201d \u201cThey didn\u2019t give you one?\u201d \u201cNo, just this.\u201d I hold up the bag with the toothbrush and comb and tiny pen and disassembled razor. \u201cYou get a cup and a spork?\u201d \u201cWhat\u2019s a spork?\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s like if a spoon and a fork had a baby. Half round with tiny little prongs so you can\u2019t stab anyone with it.\u201d I shake my head. She doesn\u2019t say anything about the razor. \u201cHey, Daddy,\u201d she yells. \u201cWhat\u2019s up?\u201d \u201cCO didn\u2019t give homegirl here any towel, cup, spork, or hygiene.\u201d Daddy slowly gets up and walks over to the window. She bangs on it a few times and waves the guard in. As soon as the door opens, a few women get up and start dancing to the music. Daddy talks to him for a few minutes, looks over at me, and then back at the guard. I can\u2019t hear what they are saying. He shrugs and walks out. \u201cWhat\u2019s with the dancing?\u201d I ask. \u201cThey play it all day for punishment. They have the remote control to the TV out there,\u201d says Nina, flicking her head toward the guard pavilion thing. \u201cWe pretend to love it so they don\u2019t get one up on us, ya know?\u201d I nod. \u201cLike they did to the POWs.\u201d \u201cSay what?\u201d \u201cPrisoners of war. I don\u2019t know what war, but I remember hearing that music was used as a weapon of torture.\u201d \u201cWow,\u201d says Nina. \u201cThat sounds right, only we turn it back on them. And besides, it\u2019s not so bad once you listen to it. These songs got some good stories. At first we faked liking it, but now I think everyone kind of likes it. Don\u2019t tell the po-po.\u201d The door opens again, and the guard hands Daddy a bunch of stuff. Nina runs over and takes it out of Daddy\u2019s arms and brings it over to me. A plastic cup with a spork in it, a travel-size shampoo bottle, another tiny soap, and a scratchy towel. She dumps it all at the end of the bed. \u201cThanks,\u201d I say. All of a sudden there\u2019s a scream from the bunk across from me. It\u2019s Jolly Rancher Girl looking better than she did yesterday. The shower intervention must have happened while I was at court. \u201cMy milk is gone, my milk is gone.\u201d She starts ripping up her bed and looking around the room. \u201cSomebody stole my milk.\u201d She runs over to Vivian. \u201cWhat are you going to do about this\u2014somebody stole my milk!\u201d Vivian doesn\u2019t take her eye off the video for a good minute. The girl just stands there getting more and more agitated and then she runs over to the hot pot and comes back with her cup. \u201cI don\u2019t have any milk!\u201d she screams, slamming the cup down on the table so that black liquid splashes out of the top. Vivian finally looks away from the TV, reaches a hand out, and slides the cup so it\u2019s in front of her. Then she lifts her T-shirt, pulls out a breast, and squirts milk into the coffee cup. Jolly Rancher Girl grabs the cup and walks back to her bunk. Nina looks at me. \u201cThey took Vivian\u2019s baby girl straight from the delivery room.\u201d She shrugs and then walks away. It\u2019s almost 8 p.m. now, and I pray Kaden is with his brothers. What if Bryan and Darcy didn\u2019t get emergency certified? I can\u2019t take not knowing so I get up from bed and walk over to the pay phone. I don\u2019t want to talk to my boys, and I desperately want to talk to them. I make a collect call to Bryan\u2019s house. Dylan answers. I wait for the pause while he accepts the charges. \u201cD?\u201d \u201cMom?\u201d I don\u2019t know what to say to my seventeen-year-old. It\u2019s awkward and weird. \u201cAre you okay?\u201d I ask. \u201cYeah, are you?\u201d \u201cI\u2019m okay,\u201d I lie. \u201cIs Kaden with you?\u201d \u201cYeah, he\u2019s here.\u201d \u201cIs he okay?\u201d \u201cHe seems fine. He keeps saying he slept in a cat bed. He says you got him lost.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m so sorry, D, I\u2019m so sorry!\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s okay, Mom.\u201d \u201cI love you so much, Dylan. Please tell your brothers I love them and give Kaden kisses from me. Please tell him I love him, and I\u2019ll see him soon. Please tell him it\u2019s all going to be okay. I\u2019m sorry, I\u2019m so, so sorry!\u201d I don\u2019t know what more to say to him. We have never been so awkward. My firstborn, the child who made me a mother, the love of my life, really. \u201cI only have a couple of minutes to talk, but I\u2019m just\u2026 sorry.\u201d There is silence on the other end. \u201cJust take care of yourself, Mom. Just get better.\u201d \u201cBye, I love you.\u201d \u201cBye,\u201d he says. After I hang up, I realize he didn\u2019t say he loved me. I get back into bed. I\u2019m grateful that no one can call me in jail. It means I only have to speak to people if I call them. There\u2019s a kind of freedom in that. I won\u2019t know what\u2019s happening in the outside world. In here I just need to focus on taking a shower and getting back into bed. Everything is stripped down to the basics. The shower is only a trickle, but the warm water feels good. I\u2019ve always preferred crying in water\u2014the ocean, a bathtub, showers\u2014and as the tears start to come my knees buckle. I sit on the shower floor, the same one that Nina said to make sure I wore my sandals in, but I don\u2019t care. I curl up in a ball and let the water run over my head like a baptism. I think about the note under my pillow. I think about my plan to hang myself. And then I hear Dylan\u2019s voice asking me to get better. Fuck. I\u2019m not going to kill myself. I can\u2019t imagine how I\u2019m going to get through what\u2019s ahead of me, but there\u2019s no escaping it. I think of Kaden believing I lost him, and about how I only have a year to get him back. And while technically I haven\u2019t lost my older boys and there\u2019s no threat hanging over my right to be their mother, I don\u2019t know if I will ever really get them back. Are they all lost to me? Am I lost to them? In jail, I am surrounded by girls so young their faces could break your heart. Girls who will ask me to explain to them exactly when in your cycle you can get pregnant. Girls who have children, lots of children, but will look at me blankly when I say the word ovulation. Girls who are full of shame because, like Nina, they have been gang-raped, jumped into a gang, beaten up, beaten down. These are the ride-or-die girls. These are the lost girls, the forgotten girls, the girls whose faces wear scars because they picked at them while staying awake for days with their meth dealer boyfriends, their ride-or-die men, who forget them the minute they get locked up, the minute they go down for crimes that aren\u2019t their own. The hungry girls who think love is a punch to the face, a knife to the neck, a \u201chold this bag for me and give it to my guy when he comes over and show him some love\u201d girls. When the doors get kicked in, these girls get locked up. So tough on the outside, but inside they are scared and alone and desperate for things they have no name for. Everyone I\u2019ve met so far in G is a lost girl\u2014Kiki, Nina, Jolly Rancher, Vivian, Leah, Spider Girl, even Daddy. I\u2019m a lost girl, too, but as I climb back into bed and clutch my makeshift hot water bottle I feel just a little bit found. I am pulled out of G for criminal court a few days later, on Monday. I\u2019ve been given a public defender, Elizabeth, who is very pregnant. I take her extreme pregnancy as a hopeful sign that they think things might get resolved quickly. I spend another full day alone in the tombs for a fifteen-minute court appearance. The assistant district attorney glares at me like I kicked his puppy then smiles at the judge as the case gets a continuance. DJ has his own public defender. I\u2019m quickly getting the routine of G down: 5 a.m. breakfast, 12 p.m. lunch, 5 p.m. dinner. Every day is one long country music song broken up with intermissions of gray, tasteless mystery food. Saturday is a tuna and egg salad sandwich; that\u2019s the party meal everyone looks forward to. Otherwise it is a slab of unknown meat between two pieces of white bread. At dinner, the same slab is breaded and served alongside canned vegetables, usually green beans. Breakfast can only be described as scrambled egg soup. The apples that come with lunch are bruised and mealy. Occasionally there\u2019s an orange, and that is cause for a citrus celebration. There is orange juggling and competitions to see who can peel it in the fewest strips. There is something about the smell of oranges that brings a bit of joy to G. After a couple of weeks, most of my detox symptoms are gone except for the insomnia. I\u2019ve always been a light sleeper, so being on the freeway means that every hour, if I do happen to fall asleep, I\u2019m woken up when the guard makes his rounds. It\u2019s no wonder that the freeway girls are crazy. We also have a front-row seat to everything that happens in G in the middle of the night. And all the guards who make extra rounds. The guards control our visits, our meals, our mail, and our access to commissary, which means paper and pens and stamps to stay in contact with the outside world. They control whether we get soap and shampoo and any sort of comfort item. If you look at any list of the red flags for domestic violence you will find this jail\u2019s operating manual. Embarrassing or putting you down; looking at you or acting in ways that scare you; controlling who you see, where you go, or what you do; keeping you or discouraging you from seeing your friends or families; taking your money or refusing to give you money for expenses; preventing you from making your own decisions; telling you that you are a bad parent or threatening to harm or take away your children; preventing you from working or attending school; blaming you for the abuse, or acting like it\u2019s not really happening; destroying your property or threatening to hurt you; intimidating you with guns, knives, or other weapons; pressuring you to have sex when you don\u2019t want to or do things sexually you\u2019re not comfortable with. Check. Check. And check. The result is a unit full of traumatized and triggered women. And the guards have no idea just how similar they are to the men that, one way or another, landed these women in G block. There is a small cement courtyard attached to G\u2014about the size of a racquetball court, and we walk around it like it\u2019s a track. Some of the girls waiting for transfers to prison are working out in hopes they will get chosen for fire camp. California uses inmates to fight wildfires and gives them two dollars a day. \u201cIt\u2019s better than being locked up,\u201d says Grace, one of the girls already sentenced and waiting for the prison bus to pick her up. \u201cAnd two dollars is better than no dollars.\u201d I don\u2019t want to think about going to prison, but if I do I try to imagine myself fighting fires. It does seem better than being locked in a cell. I join the girls walking in circles in the courtyard. I try to do a push-up but my arms are too weak to support me. There is a set of about six steps that lead to nowhere in one corner of the courtyard and because it\u2019s out of view of the cameras, girls go up to the top step and smoke contraband cigarettes. The cigarettes, like everything illegal in G, arrive in two ways: packed in the vagina of a girl who knew she was getting remanded or tucked inside one of the \u201cspecial meals\u201d that come from the kitchen. The kitchen is run by inmates in Blaine Street\u2014the minimum-security unit for nonviolent offenders who have already been sentenced. It abuts the main jail but isn\u2019t connected. The girls who work in the kitchen walk on their own over to the main jail, and I realize these were the girls I saw when I was brought into the sally port. Everyone wants to serve their sentence at Blaine Street with its backyard and bathtubs and rooms rather than cells. It also has its own kitchen and a gym. The Blaine Street residents are responsible for working all over the main jail. They clean the lobby, they clean the offices, they cook the food, they prepare the trays, they do the outside landscaping. They have four communal dayrooms each with their own television. They get to control their own remotes. The equivalent men\u2019s version of Blaine Street is the Rountree Medium Facility. Unlike Blaine, it is a good ten miles or more from the main jail. The nonviolent men are taken to the main jail every morning and they deliver supplies and then serve the meals to each block. They are the inmate trustees, and they wear a special beige uniform that identifies them. If an inmate requests a special diet because of a food allergy or religious preference, these meals are marked with a specific name. And these special meals are the vessels for messages and contraband to and from anywhere in the jail. Drugs wrapped in plastic are sent in the middle of sandwiches with a name attached so the special-meal person knows who to deliver it to. Cigarettes come in this way, as do kites, which are tiny folded-up notes or information for a specific person or the unit in general. An inmate getting his tray in solitary can pass a message to the trustee who can slip it in a special meal going to a unit where that person can hand it to the recipient. It\u2019s an underground information and commerce system as busy as the internet and more reliable than Amazon. No special-meal person would dare not pass on the information or drugs. It is my fourth week in G when I get my first kite. A quiet vegan girl who battered her boyfriend walks by my table and drops it on my tray. It\u2019s from DJ and has my initials in tiny letters in the corner. It\u2019s only a few sentences, telling me he loves me and that he\u2019s going to get us out of here. He addresses it \u201cDear Homegirl.\u201d I read it and flush it down the toilet. The guards do random searches of everyone\u2019s bunks, and you don\u2019t want to get caught with a kite. I think about this note all afternoon. It feels weird that he\u2019s using the term \u201chomegirl\u201d considering he\u2019s been a mortgage broker for most of his adult life, and he grew up in Los Gatos\u2014a wealthy Silicon Valley suburb. I guess he\u2019s adapting to his surroundings, but it feels strange and unsettling. Soon, I learn the third way that kites and contraband get in the jail. I am awake one night when the guard comes in to do the 3 a.m. rounds. At first I think I\u2019m dreaming because I smell McDonald\u2019s fries. I watch as the guard walks around the freeway and close my eyes when the flashlight passes over me so he doesn\u2019t know I\u2019m awake. I track him as he peers in all the door windows of the lower tier and then walks upstairs. He\u2019s carrying a McDonald\u2019s bag, so I know I\u2019m not crazy. I can\u2019t see him on the upper tier, but I hear a door open and then shut. When he walks downstairs twenty minutes later, the bag is not in his hands. I don\u2019t know whose room he went to and what was traded, but after a month in jail I know that the guards don\u2019t give anything for free. Once a week you can leave G block to go to a twelve-step meeting in a small classroom in the jail. I decide to go during my fifth week. I\u2019m nervous. Not because it\u2019s a recovery meeting but because I\u2019m afraid I\u2019m going to see someone I know. Before my relapse that landed me in jail, I had been in recovery for six years. I met DJ in recovery. I had also volunteered on the Hospitals and Institutions Committee within Santa Cruz County\u2019s Narcotics Anonymous group. The H&I committee was responsible for recruiting and training people to bring meetings into the jail. I have to weigh my desire to get out of G and away from country music for an hour against my fear of being seen in my reds as a criminal, a relapser, a twelve-step failure, and a cautionary tale. I can\u2019t listen to another song about backyard barbecues, so I line up with five others to attend the meeting. H block is also a female unit, so twelve-step and religious meetings are the only time the two units mixed. G is a de facto tribe and we felt we were superior to H block. In reality we were exactly the same, but there was competition over which unit was better looking, had more street cred, and had less snitches. I don\u2019t understand what the competition is about, but it feels exactly like my high school rivalry between Brookline and Newton. Since you couldn\u2019t tell where one city ended and the other began, it was a silly, pointless rivalry that still felt super important. I line up in my reds with my ID card in my hand and walk the yellow line to the meeting room. The guard unlocks the door and we all pile inside. Two women in street clothes are at the front of the room. I look up and see Cheryl, a friend I knew from recovery. I steel myself and smile and walk up to her. \u201cHi, Cheryl,\u201d I say. She seems surprised to see me. \u201cOh my god, Lara, hi\u2026\u201d I make a move to hug her and she jumps back. \u201cWe\u2019re not allowed to hug you,\u201d she says. I know this, of course. I trained her in my home on a Saturday morning while the boys watched cartoons. I served her donuts and coffee at my dining room table. I went over every rule she had to follow to bring meetings into the jail. I feel my face flush in embarrassment. I turn quickly, retreat to the back of the room, and sit down. I am suddenly angry. Angry at Cheryl. Angry at everyone in this room. But mostly I\u2019m angry at recovery\u2014the program, the community, the platitudes, the higher power, the false anonymity, and the hollow applause. NA was full of the worst gossips in the world and bored people looking for drama to replace the using. It was a dangerous combination. I spend the rest of the meeting with my eyes closed, litigating every minute I spent in NA and vowing not to go there again twenty-seven years from now when I get out of prison. That would show them. If I hadn\u2019t voluntarily gone into recovery, I wouldn\u2019t have met DJ. If I hadn\u2019t met DJ, I would have never smoked heroin. If I had never smoked heroin, I would never have stolen credit cards. If I had never used a stolen credit card, I would have never been arrested for identity theft. If I had never been arrested, I would never be in jail at this stupid meeting. This loop replays itself in my head during the walk back to G. I don\u2019t care that my circular logic is flawed. I don\u2019t care that if I had never gone into recovery and married DJ, I wouldn\u2019t have Kaden. I\u2019m angry, and I don\u2019t know what to do about it other than rerunning this loop. Back in G, there are still two hours before lights out at ten. I pace restlessly around the freeway. I walk to the phones, but I don\u2019t know who to call. Most of the women are playing a card game I don\u2019t understand. Others are making spreads in the hot pot, which involves ramen noodles and then a mix of other items squirreled away from meal trays or ordered from the commissary. Hot Cheetos are a favorite addition to spreads. There are a thousand creative ways that one pot of warm water can be used in jail, and every day I marvel at the culinary creativity. Kiki sees me pacing and asks me what\u2019s wrong. I shrug and wave my arms around me to encompass G, the jail, the universe. She understands. Everyone in G understands. \u201cGrace left a book when she went to Chowchilla, do you want it?\u201d \u201cWhat is it?\u201d I ask. \u201cI don\u2019t know. Does it matter?\u201d It doesn\u2019t matter. I can\u2019t think of the last time I read a book. There was never time in mom life to read, and certainly there wasn\u2019t time in my addict life. I had ordered several parenting books a couple of weeks before I was arrested, but I had ordered them with a stolen credit card. \u201cOkay, I\u2019ll take it, thanks.\u201d She goes into her room on the top tier and comes back down with a paperback. I am praying it\u2019s not historical fiction or some kind of heaving-bosoms romance novel. When she hands it to me I read the title: The Power of Now. I don\u2019t know who Eckhart Tolle is, but I like self-help books, and if there was ever a time and place for a self-help book it\u2019s now. I thank Kiki and take the book over to my bunk. I open it and read the first line. \u201cI have little use for the past and rarely think about it\u2026\u201d I\u2019m instantly intrigued. If this book says don\u2019t think about the past, then I\u2019m all for it. I have just spent the last hour reliving the past. I have spent every night here reliving my arrest. The past is all I think about, except for when I take a break to agonize over the future. I read until lights out, and I read first thing in the morning. I finish the book in twenty-four hours and start reading it again. I want all the things Tolle describes. I want a higher good, I want to end drama, I want to transform suffering, I want to find the space between my thoughts and soothe my pain body. I want enlightenment and peace. I want to be in the now and not in fear and anxiety and regret. I want to end psychological time. I want wholeness. I want to live in truth\u2014spiritual truth, emotional truth, psychological truth. Give me all the truths. I read The Power of Now over and over, and I strive to live by its advice. Whenever I\u2019m in fear of the future I take deep, cleansing breaths and remind myself that in this moment I am okay. Tolle says that pain only feeds on pain, not joy, so I try to find joyful moments, things to be grateful for right now. When Thanksgiving comes, I try to be grateful there\u2019s an ice cream cup on my tray and not focus on the fact that it is the first holiday I have ever spent without my children. The book offers a kind of freedom I have never felt before\u2014freedom from my restless, worried mind. I\u2019ve spent my entire life waiting for the next bad thing to happen, and now that it has I remind myself I\u2019m still here. I\u2019m surviving. As heavy as life is in jail, I actually feel lighter. The next time I go to court and the prosecuting attorney glares at me, I don\u2019t lower my eyes. I look at him, and I stay in the power of the now, and I send him love and light. I stay present in the courtroom, and I try to find the life beneath this life, the self that is thinking about itself. In the tombs, I practice deep whole-body breathing and try to meditate to let the endless, useless hours pass after a ten-minute court appearance. Everything is just a continuance. It\u2019s so hard to be in jail not knowing how long you will be there. It is psychological-time mind fuckery, so I try to ask myself, What would Eckhart do? And then I take a deep breath and try to stop my racing thoughts. Tolle says waiting is just a state of mind that we need to snap out of\u2014but he\u2019s never spent time in the tombs. I am sitting in the tombs deep breathing, trying to be joyfully present, when the door opens. I go to stand, grateful to get back to G, but it\u2019s the guard bringing in another woman. Unlike mine, her uniform is striped, green and white. She walks in and sits on the bench next to me. I have never been in the tombs with another person in my cell. It\u2019s unsettling. \u201cHi,\u201d she says. \u201cHi.\u201d She stares at me for a minute, and then pushes her hair back from her face. \u201cI\u2019m Gina.\u201d \u201cLara,\u201d I say. She stares straight ahead in silence after that, and I don\u2019t know what to say. \u201cHow are you?\u201d seems too rhetorical and mundane for such a dire moment. After about ten minutes, Gina starts to cry. I grab the roll of toilet paper and hand it to her. \u201cAre you okay?\u201d I finally ask. It\u2019s a ridiculous question, but I must say something. \u201cI killed my daughter. I didn\u2019t mean to. Oh God, I didn\u2019t mean to.\u201d She starts to sob and I am at once shocked and a little scared. Her tears are heart-wrenching, though, and I feel my own eyes well up. \u201cIt\u2019ll be okay,\u201d I say. \u201cIt\u2019ll be okay.\u201d She shakes her head at me. \u201cI miss her so much. I didn\u2019t mean it. I don\u2019t even remember doing it.\u201d I had heard some of the girls in G talking about a woman in O\u2014the medical unit\u2014who had killed her three-year-old daughter by smothering her in a hotel room. Gina is the woman from O. As she cries, I realize I\u2019m not afraid to be in a locked room with a murderer. Her anguish and sorrow are real and relatable. In an instant I am grateful. My children are alive. They are safe. They are with someone who won\u2019t hurt them. I try to stay present with her as she cries. I send her compassion in my mind. Every few minutes I murmur to her, \u201cIt will be okay. It will be okay.\u201d We are two mothers sitting on a bench in shackles. We both know I\u2019m lying. The truth is great, but sometimes lies are all you have to get you through. Sorry, Eckhart Tolle. \n chapter 8 MAMA LOVE It\u2019s safe to say that when you go from husband and wife to codefendants, the romance is over. DJ is angrier and more belligerent every time we go to court. I get it, the tombs are the worst, but he\u2019s not helping us any by acting exactly like the prosecution is portraying us. DJ and I met in recovery. He got his third DUI before I met him, and his mom had gotten him a high-powered attorney who negotiated five months at the Camp Recovery Center rather than jail. She even moved in a special mattress for him. They say that dating in recovery is like fishing in polluted waters, but when your whole world is recovery, who else are you going to date? My first marriage was over before it really took off. We were young and broke, and I had three boys in less than five years straight out of graduate school. Stressful under the best of circumstances. I was pregnant with Cody during my wedding and Dylan walked me down the aisle. I knew Bryan and I weren\u2019t right for each other, and I\u2019m sure he knew it, too, but we didn\u2019t have the language to discuss it or work through it. I had doubts even before we got married, but it seemed easier to say yes than to break up. When he cheated on me I tried to forgive him, but at the same time I disconnected from him emotionally. I was trying to protect myself from getting hurt and trying desperately to stay with him so our boys would have parents who were together. It was hard to do both things at the same time. He cheated again. And again. I knew that to stay would mean staring out the window night after night, wondering where he was. I knew that to stay would mean giving up on ever being loved. Bryan Love wasn\u2019t a bad guy. He just didn\u2019t love me. So I said goodbye to him and moved with two toddlers and a baby into the bottom level of a friend\u2019s house surrounded by redwoods. We shared custody. I was twenty-eight years old and I was in grief, but every other weekend when the boys went to their dad\u2019s house, I went out on the town. I started dating a musician. I became the life of the party. I pretended to become the motherfucking happiest woman alive. DJ and I had sat on the lawn of his rehab and talked about white picket fences and how we both wanted a nice, boring life. He had two young children from his first marriage. I had been a single mom for almost a decade at this point. He left the recovery center every day to work as a mortgage broker, and when he was done serving his time at the Camp he would whisk me away on magical weekends to fancy hotels and lake houses. One time I got off work and went home to find he had redecorated my entire bedroom. I had a new comforter and throw pillows and it felt like being taken care of. It felt like a grand gesture. He was over-the-top and he swept me off my feet in a way that I craved. Sure, he had gotten in legal trouble for drinking and driving three times and had cheated on his first wife while in rehab\u2014but those throw pillows! When I accidentally got pregnant with Kaden, DJ got me a ring, and we eloped to Hawaii. Part of me wished I could experience a marriage ceremony without morning sickness, but I pushed that aside and said \u201cI do\u201d under a palm tree with a volcano looming above us. This was going to be the suburban soccer mom life I wanted. All the bad stuff was in our past. We bought a business\u2014a pet cemetery (of all things), with down payment help from his mother. We bought a home in a cul-de-sac in Aptos. When Kaden was born, our new neighbors brought over meals. Their children became our children\u2019s best friends. It was perfectly perfect. And when Kaden was two months old, DJ had to go to rehab in New Mexico because he had started smoking heroin. I took care of all my boys and my two stepchildren and ran our business while he was gone. And I was miserable when he came back because I couldn\u2019t get over the betrayal of him using. I loved fully until someone hurt me, and then I just pretended to love while remaining vigilant for the next bout of pain. I didn\u2019t have the skill set to work things out. I didn\u2019t know how to talk something through or express my deepest feelings. My own emotions embarrassed me so I kept them private. Vulnerable wasn\u2019t a look I was willing to wear. DJ was miserable too. He had his own demons, his own fears, and we just danced around each other, not willing to look below the surface. So we smiled and fronted and pretended it was all exactly what we wanted. He started smoking heroin again in secret. I started taking pills in secret. We both denied it and tried to catch each other in the act. One day I came home from work, and he was waiting at the door with a drug test in his hand. I was outraged that he would suspect me. And angry. \u201cI don\u2019t have to pee right now.\u201d \u201cPee in this cup when you can then,\u201d he demands, pulling the cup from a store-bought drug-test kit and stomping away. \u201cYou\u2019re the one who relapsed and went to rehab, leaving me with a two-month-old, five kids, and a business!\u201d I throw this at him to see if it makes him back off, but it doesn\u2019t work. Outwardly I am mad, but inside I am terrified. The pills are my secret and I need them. They give me my suburban superpowers. In my mind, this is better than all the other moms in their workout wear carrying water bottles full of vodka water. Or sitting at the park drinking chardonnay from sippy cups. There\u2019s more alcohol at a Little League game than at a Super Bowl party. I don\u2019t drink, so I feel virtuous. My mind races trying to find a way to get out of this pee test. \u201cI\u2019m going to take the dog for a walk, and maybe I\u2019ll pee when I get back.\u201d I put our dog on his leash, grab a Tupperware container from the kitchen, and hide it under my sweatshirt. It\u2019s dark outside, and I walk him around the cul-de-sac. Every minute or so he stops and lifts his leg, and when he does I quickly put the container under the stream and catch it. I think this will only take a few minutes, but each leg lift produces such a tiny amount that I have to walk him for over an hour to get enough. Once we\u2019re back in the house, I hand the dog off to DJ, grab the cup from his hands, and flounce off to the bathroom. I lock the door and then pour the dog\u2019s urine in the cup. Luckily it\u2019s still warm. I hide the Tupperware under the sink, open the door, and hand the cup to DJ. He does the test while I stand by self-righteously. The dog tests clean. I say, \u201cI told you so. How dare you not believe me? You should look in the mirror the next time you want to accuse someone.\u201d And the strange thing is, in that moment, I believe I am who I\u2019m pretending to be. It didn\u2019t cross my mind to say, \u201cI have a problem and I need help.\u201d I have never said that sentence out loud to anyone. I graciously accept DJ\u2019s apology. Today, DJ and I are put in the same van after leaving the tombs. The driver is playing music and ignoring us as we whisper. \u201cI want to escape,\u201d he announces. \u201cWhat?\u201d \u201cI\u2019m not going to prison. We could drive to Costa Rica.\u201d I don\u2019t want to go to prison either, but I can\u2019t imagine us on the run, and I\u2019m not even sure if you can drive to Costa Rica. I\u2019ve always been bad at geography. There have been escapes before. There\u2019s a girl in G who walked away from Blaine Street. She was caught down at the local diner a quarter mile away and now she\u2019s not allowed to go back to Blaine Street. As far as I know, nobody has ever escaped from the main jail. I glance at the driver and back at DJ and put my finger to my lips. \u201cI\u2019ll think about it,\u201d I whisper. It\u2019s hard not having an out date\u2014an official sentence. I envy the girls in G who have hand-drawn calendars, and every night they get to make a big X through the day. It feels like progress. I\u2019m in purgatory, and for me, there\u2019s no progress in purgatory. DJ slips me a kite right before we get out of the van. I panic for a moment because the guards pat you down when you return from the tombs. I quickly tuck it in my bra. Hopefully the guard won\u2019t be too handsy during my search. I\u2019m furious that DJ has given me the kite directly. It\u2019s so much safer to write me via sandwich. When I get back to my cell, after a mercifully light pat down, I tuck under the covers and open the note. When I do, a folded-up note within drops onto my sheet. \u201cHey Homegirl, I love you and miss you so fucking much. Remember that thing I never tried, well I tried it and it was amazing! Here\u2019s a little early Xmas present. Who always takes care of you???? Open it privately and carefully!!!!\u201d I read the note over and over, trying to make it mean anything other than what I think it means. That thing he never tried is injecting heroin. I am shocked. DJ is shooting up? In jail? Which means he could only be sharing a needle. My heart races and my mouth waters. I am ravenous for whatever\u2019s inside this kite-within-a-kite. I am only about six weeks clean, but I am clean. The idea that DJ isn\u2019t makes me both angry and jealous. Everybody is trying to get high in G. Some are trying to smoke banana peels leftover from breakfast. Others are ripping out pages from the Bible and rolling up coffee grinds to make a caffeine-laced religious blunt because somebody said they heard smoking coffee gets you high. When the med cart comes, one girl on methadone holds it in her mouth and then spits the warm syrupy medicine into three other mouths. One girl didn\u2019t give her albuterol inhaler back to the nurse and sprayed it on the sink until it dried into a faint powder that she could snort. When somebody sneaks drugs in, she is rushed to the top tier where Daddy and Vivian and Kiki embrace her and shuttle her into a room while Nina keeps lookout. I don\u2019t feel great clean, but I don\u2019t particularly feel bad either. I\u2019m not invited to the top-tier drug parties, and I\u2019m okay with that. I want to be clean. Or I did. Now I have whatever DJ gave me, and I\u2019m questioning why I shouldn\u2019t use in here. If there\u2019s anywhere that calls for some mental escape, it\u2019s here. I go into the bathroom and over to the corner where there are no cameras. My hands are shaking as I unwrap the mini kite. Inside is a tiny plastic baggie full of white powder. I assume it is meth. A part of me is sad it\u2019s not sticky brown heroin that I could pop in my cheek and suck on like a lozenge. I don\u2019t know if that\u2019s a thing, but I can imagine doing that. I flush both kites down the toilet and tuck the baggie in my bra. I don\u2019t know what to do. I get into my bunk and close my eyes. Back when DJ and I were keeping our drug habits secret from each other, I found three pea-sized baggies just like the one in my bra. I had searched his gym bag while he drove the kids to school and found them inside a sock. Only those baggies had tar heroin in them\u2014goopy dark brown pebbles. I felt triumphant. While he was driving carpool, I took down a box of dark brown sugar and a saucepan and boiled the sugar so it looked just like the heroin. Then I made three duplicate baggies and tucked them in his sock. I carried the real heroin in my pocket all day\u2014constantly playing with the baggies like worry beads. Eventually I googled how to smoke heroin and locked myself in my bedroom with a straw and some tinfoil and a lighter. It didn\u2019t give me the magical rush of Vicodin on an empty stomach, but it made me feel warm. I had given up the pills for the millionth time and swore I would never take them again, so this felt like a good alternative. Easier. Gentler. It gave me a quiet boost of opiate energy, but I had to smoke a lot to feel it. Or maybe I just had to get better at inhaling. I wasn\u2019t sure if I was really high or just high because I should be but I kissed DJ when he got home from work and made a nice dinner. I don\u2019t know if he got high from the brown sugar, but he didn\u2019t mention it. We played our parts. We played each other. We kept our secrets. I can trace that day to all the days in the year that followed. Telling DJ I knew he was doing heroin. Telling him I wanted to smoke it with him. And then it was on. We spent all our money. I went out stealing, both to fund our habit and maintain our suburban charade. DJ bought the drugs, but I was the real criminal, stealing credit cards and going through other people\u2019s mail looking for money. It was a year of misery and chaos and lying to everyone. Those little baggies made me lose everyone I loved. I get up from my bunk and walk to Vivian\u2019s room and knock on her open door. \u201cWhat\u2019s up?\u201d She raises her eyebrows as I enter. \u201cI was in the van from court with my husband today.\u201d She gives me a nod telling me to continue. I look over my shoulder to make sure there\u2019s no officer in G, and none of the girls are looking. She sees me glance out and gets off her bunk and shuts the door. I pull out the baggie and hold it out to her in my palm. She smiles at me like we\u2019re best friends. \u201cTake it.\u201d \u201cWhat?\u201d \u201cTake it, I don\u2019t want it.\u201d She looks at me suspiciously. I shrug. \u201cI\u2019m trying to stay clean.\u201d \u201cI can respect that. What do you want for it?\u201d I start to say \u201cnothing,\u201d but I\u2019ve learned enough to know this is worse than asking for something. In G, altruism is always suspicious. I don\u2019t have money on my books yet, although DJ said his mom was going to put some on mine too. I haven\u2019t been able to order anything from the commissary. \u201cDo you have paper and an envelope and stamps?\u201d \u201cI can hook that up. What else?\u201d I don\u2019t really want anything else\u2014I just want to be able to write my boys and maybe write in general. But I can tell Vivian doesn\u2019t think this is an even trade yet. \u201cGive me two bear claws,\u201d I say. She gives me a big smile and nods. That night in my bunk, I again try to meditate. I take deep breaths. I try to focus on the breath moving through my body. I try to stop my thoughts by asking myself what my next thought will be. I try to be the self behind the self. Metacognition is great and all, but not that easy when half the locked rooms are high on DJ\u2019s drugs and the party goes on all night long. I pull the blanket over my head and cry\u2014this is my meditation tonight. The only thing that\u2019s happened in our court case since our arrest, besides continuances, is that the judge denies a request to reduce our bail. It\u2019s still $250,000, which seems excessive considering the only violent moment I\u2019ve ever had in my life was throwing a head of iceberg lettuce at my high school boyfriend when I was sixteen. Needless to say, no one has bailed me out. My mother-in-law could bail me out, but apparently she\u2019s too angry to consider it. She blames me for DJ\u2019s crimes. It\u2019s almost Christmas, and I\u2019m no closer to knowing my fate than I was on the day I arrived. I try to call Kaden on December 12, his fourth birthday, but there\u2019s no answer at Bryan\u2019s house. Some days it feels like there is no outside world. It\u2019s just three meals a day and music videos. I feel listless and tense. I only have a year, or I lose Kaden forever. A judge will say I\u2019m no longer his mother, and legally it will be true. It doesn\u2019t matter where I am. The clock ticks just the same. Unless I can have a certain number of supervised visits with him, stay clean, provide somewhere to live, get a job, go to therapy, take a parenting class\u2014I will lose him. None of it is hard to do, but all of it is impossible to do from G. I just want to know what\u2019s going to happen one way or another. The not knowing is the worst. Every day is like that moment when you lean back in a chair and you go just a little too far and have to jerk yourself upright. I\u2019m not upright, and I haven\u2019t fallen; I\u2019m suspended in that space of muted panic. Things get tenser in G as Christmas approaches. Just like on the outside, holidays are triggering and make everyone even edgier. Arguments happen over the hot pot and someone double-dipping her colored pencil directly instead of putting the hot water in her mug. The cleanliness of the shower is another powder keg waiting to blow. The lack of new videos in the rotation have some cursing the country music channel in two languages. Today tension is high because a woman named Elena was brought in last night and Daddy suspects her of ratting out a friend of a friend of Daddy\u2019s. There\u2019s something about a motel room, counterfeit money, and a setup. Daddy is raging at Elena, trying to bait her, trying to get her to respond. Elena just ignores Daddy and watches the videos. Daddy\u2019s rage is escalating. She\u2019s on the top level yelling down at Elena and getting zero response. I\u2019m annoyed that the yelling is interrupting the music. Finally, Daddy comes barreling down the stairs, and I lift my head and watch as she slips on the bottom step and falls. Everyone laughs, even her minions. Daddy does not like to be laughed at. I quickly jump up from my chair and stand between Daddy and the tables. Her face is red with embarrassment. Even under her buzz cut, her scalp has turned red. I give her my hand and as I pull her up, I whisper, \u201cReal power is quiet power.\u201d She freezes, her head next to mine. \u201cIf you lose control of yourself, you lose control of them,\u201d I add. Daddy pulls me into the bathroom and doesn\u2019t say a word. Everyone stops laughing. \u201cExplain,\u201d she commands. \u201cIf you rage at Elena, you give her power over you. Over your emotions. She becomes stronger than you.\u201d Daddy nods. \u201cIf you fight her, you\u2019ll get pulled out of here, and then you really won\u2019t have any control.\u201d I\u2019m making shit up now. I have no idea what the guards do when there is a real fight. I recall the time I dumped an entire box of cereal onto the middle of the kitchen floor to shock my kids into silence so I could take a business call and not have the client know I was at home with three little boys. \u201cYou have to create cognitive dissonance\u2014do the unexpected thing and she\u2019ll do something different.\u201d I\u2019m not sure if this is what cognitive dissonance means, but the words impress Daddy. \u201cI get it,\u201d she says. \u201cDope.\u201d She turns and walks out of the bathroom. I follow behind her, not sure what she\u2019s going to do. She walks over to Jolly Rancher, who\u2019s sitting next to Elena, and motions for her to get up. She sits down next to Elena and doesn\u2019t say a word, just stares at her. When lunch comes, she doesn\u2019t eat. She just sits and stares at Elena. And when Elena moves to a different table, Daddy follows her. All afternoon, she sits and stares and never speaks. When the meal trays come for dinner, Daddy is still staring, and Elena is increasingly nervous and uncomfortable. When Daddy doesn\u2019t eat dinner, everybody in G goes silent. Elena runs to the bathroom and pushes the panic button. Two guards come in. \u201cRoll me up,\u201d she says, pulling her things down from her bunk. \u201cI need to go to another unit.\u201d The guards know that a girl rolling herself up really means the other inmates are rolling her up. She\u2019s not wanted. They don\u2019t argue when someone wants to be rolled up, and they don\u2019t ask questions. It\u2019s how you keep peace in the unit, and the guards want zero problems and zero paperwork. They look around to see if anyone is obviously causing trouble for Elena, but nobody says a word. Daddy just watches the television, disinterested. \u201cRoll it up then,\u201d one of them says. After Elena leaves, Daddy walks upstairs and starts moving people around. I see bunks being shifted from room to room. Spider, the girl with the neck tattoo, comes downstairs and moves into the room next to Vivian. That girl moves out onto the freeway. I\u2019m not sure what is happening until Daddy walks up to me. \u201cGet your stuff.\u201d \u201cWhat?\u201d I\u2019m shocked. Is she rolling me up? \u201cYou\u2019re moving in with Patricia.\u201d Patricia is an older gangster woman and super chill. She has a prime room right at the top of the stairs, but mostly keeps to herself. People show her respect because she\u2019s so old. I grab my few things and Daddy picks up my yoga mat mattress. I can\u2019t believe I\u2019m getting a door that shuts. Some quiet. More privacy. I settle my stuff onto my bed and turn to say hi to Patricia. \u201cWhat you want?\u201d she asks with a big smile. Before me on her bunk lies a huge array of snacks from the commissary\u2014chips, candy bars, ramen noodles, bear claws, Jolly Ranchers. The mother lode. I pick up a Snickers and peel back the wrapper. Nothing in my life has tasted as good as this candy bar. Everything changes once I\u2019m on the top tier. During long conversations, I get to know everyone well. I stand at the railing and look down on the freeway and discuss the latest gossip in G with Daddy. We keep the peace. My thirty-two felony charges give me street cred I don\u2019t deserve, considering I didn\u2019t even know the phrase \u201cstreet cred\u201d two months ago. But I go along with it. I develop some swagger. I tell the girls how I decoded the algorithm to credit cards\u2014the pattern of odd and even numbers that are used by each bank\u2014so I could create working credit card numbers without having to have an actual card. It\u2019s not that complicated, but they\u2019re deeply impressed. On paper, it looks like I\u2019m the scariest person in the county. Since I don\u2019t know the street world of Santa Cruz, I don\u2019t know who to fear, defer to, or lord over\u2014I treat everyone equally. Now that I\u2019m on the top tier, I quickly come to understand each subgroup, each clique, each gang, and each outsider, and I speak all jail languages. I can be gangster. I can be a Bible thumper. I can be a wise elder. I can do makeup with Kiki and Nina and flirt with the trustees who deliver the meals. I can also talk to the guards in a way that implies I don\u2019t really belong here by using big words they\u2019ve never heard of but have to pretend they know so they can save face with an inmate. I also become the unofficial welcome wagon, making sure that everyone who comes into G has what they are allowed to have. If someone is missing their hygiene kit or a towel like I was, I bang on the window and demand the guard go get it. I am a friend to everyone but not too close with anyone. It\u2019s exactly as it was in high school. I become whoever I need to be to survive. But mostly I\u2019m a mom with nowhere to put my mother energy, so I listen. Empathize. Word gets around that I have a master\u2019s degree so girls who\u2019ve dropped out of high school start coming to me for advice. Problems are brought to me. Legal issues. I\u2019m given a nickname. Mama Love. And like any good mother, I lead with compassion. But all it takes is one stern look to bring the miscreants in line. Eventually Daddy brings me her court and legal papers and we talk over options and prison. The minute the unit sees Daddy deferring to me, a peaceful transition of power happens. It\u2019s subtle and unspoken but real. When someone has a problem with being disrespected by someone, wants to move off the freeway, wants to move upstairs, wants to make a commissary trade, wants to roll someone up, I\u2019m consulted. Daddy is there, too, but my opinion is always the final word. I write a one-page narrative poem about the girls in G being hooked on H and they make me read it out loud over and over. They have never been written about, their lives and struggles never put on paper. When they learn that a short story of mine has been published in a real book, I hear them telling their family about me on their phone calls. I don\u2019t tell them that a short story in a small press anthology doesn\u2019t make you famous or that right now is the first time I\u2019ve written anything in ten years. But now that I\u2019m on the top level I have endless paper, so I start to write. I start a young adult novel about angel guides who fall into forbidden love as the two teens they are guiding also fall in love. I mail the first eleven pages to Ty and ask him if he wants to write the book with me. He\u2019s an avid reader and at thirteen has already written his first novel. He writes in the way people do who are madly in love with language\u2014a maximalist who will go on to major in linguistics and speak five languages. I tell myself that his love of reading isn\u2019t for the same reason I loved to read as a kid. I tell myself he isn\u2019t trying to escape trauma, but it\u2019s hard to do that when I\u2019m telling myself that in jail. I write letters to my boys and ask them to read parts to Kaden for me. It\u2019s hard to talk to them on the phone some days because it\u2019s awkward and they are teenagers who don\u2019t love to talk on the phone to begin with. When they put Kaden on, he just tells me he loves his brothers but wants to come home. \u201cSoon,\u201d I promise. \u201cI love you so much,\u201d I say. The \u201creal power is quiet power\u201d mantra spreads through the unit, and people stop fighting so much and instead try to \u201cout-quiet\u201d each other. Power doesn\u2019t have anything to prove, I remind them. None of them know that I actually feel more lost and powerless than ever. My future is in limbo and there\u2019s no power in limbo. \n chapter 9 NEW YEAR, NEW YOU It\u2019s a year of firsts without my children. My first Thanksgiving without them. My first Christmas without them. I miss Kaden\u2019s fourth birthday on December 12, and Cody\u2019s sixteenth birthday on December 30. I am now someone who misses her children\u2019s birthdays because she\u2019s in jail. Shortly after Thanksgiving, Darcy sends me a Christmas card that shows her and my four boys. They are making a pyramid at the beach, and they are all in Santa hats. I think I know why she sends me this picture, and it is not to wish me season\u2019s greetings. I try to focus on the fact that they\u2019re all together, and safe. While Bryan was not the best husband, he is a great dad. Darcy couldn\u2019t have children, and while we were friendly as she got together with Bryan, things have been fraught this last year during my relapse. Darcy hired an expensive lawyer, and Bryan took me to court over custody. They wanted more time with them and accused me of being on drugs. They were right, of course, but I still denied it. I wanted to pretend I was fine and work things out with Bryan without lawyers or courts the way we always had. I didn\u2019t think it was any of Darcy\u2019s business, and I was afraid that if I had gone to them and said, \u201cHey, can you take the boys for thirty days so I can go to rehab and get my shit together?\u201d they would have used that against me in court. I was stuck. In jail, I choose not to think about the fact that my boys had said they didn\u2019t like Darcy. By their account: She screamed at them all the time. The house was never clean enough for her taste. She often hid out in her room. She got mad at them for eating her special food. She was always yelling at and fighting with their dad. Maybe it was true or maybe it was just kids complaining. Darcy and I had long pretended to get along for the boys, but I always felt like she resented me when I did well and celebrated when I did badly. Underneath the pretense was the simple fact that, no matter what, I was always going to be the mother and she was always going to be the stepmother. She could never change that or, perhaps, forgive me for that. After months of dragged-out mediation over custody, my arrest had settled it once and for all. I knew Bryan would take care of Kaden and love him while I was in jail. I knew Kaden would be happy as long as he was around his big brothers. Darcy was a necessary evil, but better than strangers. I sent her as much love and light as I could. I hoped her heart would be open to Kaden. I was grateful to her and wary of her at the same time. Now she holds my baby in this picture, and it feels like she is staring straight into my soul. Now she has all my children all the time. She has won. I push thoughts of Darcy away and try to stay in the moment. Jail is a great place to learn to meditate, and it\u2019s going to be my New Year\u2019s resolution. I sit on my bunk breathing every day of December\u2014first for five minutes, then ten, then thirty, until I can meditate for an hour without feeling like more than five minutes have passed. It\u2019s a way to beat crazy jail time at its own game. After an hour of meditation there\u2019s a feeling that\u2019s almost like getting high. Not quite, but close. I wish I knew how many hours of meditation would equal twenty Vicodin. When people speak to me, I practice being present and sending them love. I do this with the guards, with the judge and prosecutor when my case is continued yet again on Christmas Eve, with Daddy and Nina and Kiki and Vivian. I send love to the scared women who come in for their first time. I also make sure to tell them how everything works in G. I give them the orientation I never got. All day long I send love out to the world. To my children. My neighbors in Aptos. To DJ and Bryan. I even send love to Darcy, but then I think of her clutching Kaden and I take it back. I\u2019m not the Dalai Lama, after all. The other women tell me that I will definitely be going to prison and that I should start working out now so I can try out for fire camp. We go in the courtyard and do sit-ups and push-ups and walk in endless circles. No one can figure out how many times around the small courtyard is a mile. The guesses range from fifty to a thousand. On Christmas morning I wake up and walk around the courtyard for hours. I meditate as I walk. I meditate all day long so I don\u2019t have to think about life outside G block. The time between Christmas and New Year\u2019s is extra boring, so Daddy and I hatch a plan to break up the monotony. Leah, who is pregnant, will fake labor pains. She\u2019s only seven months, so Daddy has determined that this will be too serious for normal medical and as a holiday gift to us, she will get paramedics into the unit for our viewing pleasure and just to break up the monotony. She and Leah come into my cell as they are plotting the details. \u201cI need to know what labor feels like,\u201d says Leah. \u201cYou have a million children, coach me.\u201d I have nothing better to do so I agree. \u201cDo you get period cramps?\u201d \u201cYeah,\u201d says Leah. \u201cIt\u2019s nothing like that,\u201d I say. \u201cIt\u2019s like this pressure that builds, kind of from the back, and then it wraps around and tightens.\u201d I think back to all my labors with Dylan, Cody, Ty, and Kaden. \u201cIt\u2019s like no other pain there is when it comes. A tightness and a squeezing and sometimes the pain is so bad it takes your breath away.\u201d I know this is pretend, but I see in Leah\u2019s face the realization of what awaits her when she has her baby. She looks scared. I am about to say it\u2019s okay because it\u2019s all worth it, and you have this beautiful baby, and you fall in love like you\u2019ve never felt love before, but I stop myself. Her baby will be taken away from her in the hospital. She will give birth handcuffed to a bed. She will fall in love and have her heart broken at the same moment. Everyone is excited to start the New Year with visions of paramedics. Daddy pushes the panic button and calls the guards. \u201cLeah is going into labor. She\u2019s in pain, come quick!\u201d she yells. Leah has taken over an empty bunk on the freeway, so everyone can witness the performance. Two guards rush in and hover over her. \u201cOohhhh it hurts, it hurts\u2026\u201d she moans. They try to get her up, but she screams louder and says she can\u2019t move. Her performance is high-school-theater level, but it convinces the guards. One talks into his shoulder radio and instructs someone to call 911. It only takes about ten minutes for the paramedics to arrive. Firefighters also. There are four of them, and they are young and gorgeous. The guards lock everyone in the cells, but we watch through the windows as they stand around Leah. Within minutes two more paramedics come in with a gurney. We watch in disbelief as Leah is wheeled out of G. Right before she\u2019s rolled out the door, she flips us all the bird. The guards unlock the cells, and Daddy asks where they are taking her. \u201cDominican Hospital,\u201d one of the guards says. As soon as he leaves the room, there\u2019s a mad rush to the phones. Three girls call their drug dealers and tell them to get to Dominican Hospital emergency. Leah is on the outside and will be coming back in once they realize she\u2019s not in labor. This wasn\u2019t the plan, and I feel my power in G slip a little. Did Daddy keep this part of the plan from me? It\u2019s no secret that I don\u2019t use the drugs DJ sends me. I don\u2019t know if this was the real plan all along and Daddy says no when I ask. I\u2019m not thrilled at the idea of more drugs in G, but I could never say that. It\u2019s so hard to stay clean in G and I\u2019m almost at sixty days. I\u2019m proud of myself, but when they are around, the cravings are stronger than my meditation. In recovery they always say, \u201cIf you don\u2019t want a haircut, then don\u2019t hang out at a barber shop.\u201d There\u2019s no catchy platitude for when you\u2019re locked in the barber shop twenty-four hours a day. Leah doesn\u2019t come back before lockdown, so I go to sleep not knowing if she was met by a cavalcade of drug dealers in the ER. I am awoken by yelling. Patricia and I jump up. I slept in my clothes, but she is in her bra and underwear only. There are about ten guards in G shouting, all the doors are open, and the lights are on. \u201cEveryone out on the floor, now!\u201d they scream. Girls are running down the stairs. Patricia tries to grab her clothes, but the guard yells at her not to touch anything. There\u2019s yelling from Daddy\u2019s room, but I don\u2019t have a chance to turn back before we are all rushed out of G block. Shakedowns have happened before but there\u2019s usually some warning and people have time to hide their second mattress in the shower or tuck any contraband away in hidey-holes around the unit. Not tonight. The entire unit is marched through the jail until we get to the big holding room you pass through before you go to court. There\u2019s a giant wire cage in one corner of the room. It\u2019s square and looks like the temporary fencing that goes up around construction sites. We\u2019re all herded into the cage and stand there stunned as it\u2019s locked from the outside with a giant padlock. I look around at some of the regulars to see if this is normal, and I can tell this is not normal for anyone. I don\u2019t see Leah; she must still be at the hospital. I think about all the calls made to drug dealers. I had heard girls talking about the trick we played on the guards over the phone. After a while it\u2019s easy to forget that the guards are always listening to everything. It is freezing in the cage, and poor Patricia is half-naked and shivering. \u201cHey,\u201d I yell to one of the guards. \u201cYeah?\u201d \u201cCan you get her some clothes? She\u2019s freezing.\u201d I nod toward Patricia. \u201cYeah, sure, no problem.\u201d Thank God for small kindnesses. I give her a big fake smile and say, \u201cThanks so much! Hey, do you happen to know what time it is?\u201d \u201cWhy? You have somewhere to be?\u201d She laughs and walks away. I\u2019m guessing it\u2019s 2 a.m., maybe three. Girls are huddled together on the floor trying to fall back asleep. Daddy and Kiki and Vivian are whispering. I need to see what\u2019s up with them, but first I need to get Patricia dressed. The guard brings her some reds and a big beige coat. \u201cWhoa,\u201d I say, \u201cI\u2019ve never seen one of those before.\u201d \u201cBlaine Street coat,\u201d says Patricia. \u201cSo they don\u2019t get cold walking over to the kitchen.\u201d It\u2019s a huge coat, with thick canvas material on the outside and soft flannel inside. It\u2019s warm. It\u2019s luxurious. It\u2019s amazing. We\u2019re left in the cage for hours. Daddy is pissed because she has a lighter in her cell and doesn\u2019t want to get another demerit. The more demerits you get, the less credit you have to shave days or even weeks off your sentence. We sit in there through what would normally be breakfast time, and it\u2019s almost light out when they bring us back right before the shift change at 7 a.m. The guards don\u2019t say a word as they march us back to G. None of us have any idea what they were looking for or what they may have found. G is in shambles. The freeway mattresses are scattered all over the floor, and everything from the cells has been dumped haphazardly along the tier: books, letters, legal papers, blankets, clothes, toothbrushes. Family pictures painstakingly glued on the walls with toothpaste have been ripped down. Shelves engineered from empty maxi pad boxes have been crushed. Commissary items are scattered. It\u2019s like a Category 5 hurricane hit G. This wasn\u2019t an investigation\u2014it was punishment. We\u2019re all trying to sort whose belongings are whose when Leah comes back in with a big smile on her face. I can\u2019t deal with all of this and the temptation of drugs at the same time. I assume that\u2019s what she\u2019s smiling about. I quickly get on the pay phone to call my boys. If anything will strengthen my resolve it will be talking to them. Because DJ always has money on his books I use his S-number whenever I need to make a call. The system will charge his account. I dial his S-number and the operator says it\u2019s not valid. I think I must have done it wrong so I try again. I keep trying. If there wasn\u2019t money, it would say not enough money and to call collect. I have never heard the not-a-valid-number message. This is not possible. I run to my room and pick up one of his letters from the floor and look at the number on the envelope. I don\u2019t have the number wrong. I try to call again as panic sets in. My mind starts to conjure all sorts of disaster scenarios. He\u2019s overdosed and in the morgue. He\u2019s been shanked and is in the morgue. He\u2019s been taken off to prison now even though we haven\u2019t even had a trial or been sentenced. My hands are shaking. I don\u2019t know what to do. I have no money on my books to make a call. I call my mom collect. No answer. I don\u2019t want to call my mother-in-law. I\u2019ve tried to avoid her because I\u2019m pretty sure she hates me and it\u2019s just too much to deal with. I pace nervously around G, not sure what to do after the mess is cleaned up. I keep trying to use his S-number. Maybe the jail found out I was using it for my calls and shut it down. Maybe that\u2019s what the not-valid number means. Maybe this is more punishment. G block is excitedly listening to Leah\u2019s account of the ambulance ride and the real ice cream they gave her in the hospital. No drugs got through because they took her to the maternity ward rather than the ER. \u201cBraxton Hicks,\u201d she yells at me as I stand at the bank of phones. \u201cYou forgot to tell me about Braxton Hicks contractions.\u201d I shrug. I\u2019m just glad there are no drugs to tempt me. I gather my courage and make a collect call to my mother-in-law. I wait for it to connect, and I hear her accept the charges. There\u2019s a shuffling and cracking sound as if the phone has been dropped, and then I hear a man\u2019s voice: \u201cHello?\u201d \u201cHello?\u201d DJ says again. \u201cHello?\u201d I whisper. There is a long pause, and I feel as if G block just flipped sideways. I press my hand against the wall to steady myself. \u201cI got bailed out,\u201d he says. \u201cYou mean your mom bailed you out\u2026\u201d \u201cYeah.\u201d He\u2019s trying to keep the glee out of his voice, but I hear it. He is sleeping in a soft bed and eating good food and taking hot showers. He\u2019s been getting high all the time while I fight to stay clean, and he is free. I want to scream. I want to cry. But I swallow it all and try not to choke as it goes down. \u201cAmazing,\u201d I say. \u201cLook, baby, I\u2019m going to get you out of there, I promise. We\u2019ll be together soon.\u201d \u201cWhen did you get out?\u201d \u201cA few days ago.\u201d \u201cHave you talked to Kaden?\u201d He doesn\u2019t answer right away, and then he\u2019s angry. \u201cI\u2019m not going to call that fucking house!\u201d \u201cHave you not talked to him since we were arrested?\u201d I am shocked. I never asked, but I assumed he was trying to call and talk to him as much as I was. \u201cYou didn\u2019t call him on his birthday?\u201d I can hear DJ inhale deeply, and I realize he\u2019s smoking. \u201cLook, I have to go, we\u2019re about to go to lunch.\u201d \u201cWell, I don\u2019t want to keep you from lunching.\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s not like that, I need to do what my mom says, you know how it is\u2026\u201d \u201cOkay. Can you at least put some money on my books so I can call the boys?\u201d I realize that he\u2019s been out for a few days and hasn\u2019t done this yet. I know what he\u2019s doing with any money he has. \u201cOf course, and I\u2019m going to get you out. Who always takes care of you? I will sell everything we have.\u201d I doubt we have anything left to sell, but I don\u2019t argue. \u201cCall me tonight,\u201d he says. \u201cWait,\u201d I say before he hangs up. \u201cYou need to call CPS! You can do supervised visits. You can take the parenting class. You can start all the requirements. You need to right away or we\u2019ll lose Kaden!\u201d \u201cGotta go. I love you, homegirl.\u201d I hang up and head back to my room. I imagine DJ free and me in prison for years. I vow never to call him again. When I get back to my cell, Patricia has everything in order. She still has the coat, and it\u2019s laid across her bed like a comforter. \u201cLook what I found,\u201d she says, a huge smile on her face. She\u2019s holding a small radio. \u201cHow the hell did you get that?\u201d \u201cIt was on the floor outside the cage. When we left, I scooped it up and hid it in my nice big jacket.\u201d She adjusts the antenna, turns the dial, and gets a local pop station. And when Beyonc\u00e9\u2019s \u201cSingle Ladies\u201d comes on, Patricia turns the volume all the way up and moves the radio to the doorway. Everyone stops cleaning up the mess and starts to sing. I don\u2019t think about DJ anymore. I don\u2019t think about my boys. Just for tonight, G block is the only family I know. The only family I want to know. I smile and shimmy until lights out. That night Patricia is snoring, and I stare up at the darkness wide awake. I\u2019ve never been able to lie to myself between 2 a.m. and 4 a.m.\u2014those hours have always been when my conscience wakes me up with the truth\u2014since I first stole my aunt\u2019s jeans. I\u2019m too exhausted to use any of my Tolle tricks, so I lie in the dark and let every worry and fear and regret and pain settle in. I press play on my life and watch all my mistakes flicker past my mind\u2019s eye. I see my fake smiles and my posturing and my decades of pretending everything is okay when it isn\u2019t. I see all the lies I have told, all the untruths, all the omissions. I see every bottle of Vicodin I have stolen. I see every credit card I have taken. I see everyone I have hurt\u2014my boys, DJ, Bryan, Darcy, my mom, my neighbors, my friends. I see every ridiculous story I have told to hide my addiction. I see all the moments, years really, where I could have easily asked for help but my ego, my denial, and my shame prevented me. The thought that I was already in jail before I was in jail floats around in my mind, but it\u2019s both too ephemeral and too complicated for me to unpack. I try to look at my life as if it\u2019s a story and trace the plot that has gotten me to this bleak place, but there are too many missing pieces. I want to blame some moment for my addiction, some trauma, some loss. But mostly I want to blame somebody. Someone has to be responsible for who I have become, so I put the people in a lineup and try to pick out the perpetrator. My older sister was killed in a car accident. My brother died of a heroin overdose. My other brother had mental health issues and a gambling problem and often threatened suicide. I never had a father. I never had a mother who was present. I never had a normal family. My first husband cheated on me. My second husband is an addict who just abandoned me in jail. I don\u2019t know the language of grief or loss or emotions at all\u2014it was never spoken in my home. I can\u2019t remember a single time in my life when someone asked me \u201cHow are you?\u201d and I answered honestly. I don\u2019t think I have ever known how I am, or who I am. I have always felt like an actor playing the role of me. My whole life I had pretended to be a beautiful, happy, shiny person in the hopes that would somehow make me a beautiful, happy, shiny person. I fit in everywhere because people love beautiful, happy, shiny people. But the problem with me trying to fit in everywhere is that I have never actually felt like I belonged anywhere. Or with anyone. I couldn\u2019t reach out for help before the police came knocking on my door because I was so desperately playing the suburban mom role I\u2019d created. This is how a real mom shows up to school board meetings. This is what a real mom makes for snacks. This is how a real mom should sacrifice herself for her children. I vowed to be the mom I never had, but she and I turned out to be just the same. Absent. Gone. If my children need me tonight they can\u2019t call me. I wonder if showing up as a fake version of yourself is just as bad as not showing up at all? I run this idea around in my mind, poking and prodding at it to see if it holds up. It doesn\u2019t. The truth is, I would have preferred any version of my mom to being alone. So I am actually worse than my mom. I can study the people in my lineup and make them turn right and then left, but every time I try to point my finger at someone or something, I can\u2019t. There is no one to blame but me. \n chapter 10 ROLL IT UP Our public defenders are trying to work out a plea deal. Elizabeth comes to see me, and she is not happy that DJ is out, but super happy that I am still in. \u201cYou\u2019re safer in here,\u201d she says. \u201cReally? It doesn\u2019t seem all that safe.\u201d \u201cIf you were to get out and commit a crime, do drugs and get caught, the plea deal doesn\u2019t happen. You will go to prison. I won\u2019t be able to do anything.\u201d \u201cDo you know how many drugs are in this jail? I haven\u2019t done any, and I could have. A lot.\u201d She gives me a weak smile, but I want applause. I need some kind of validation. If I said that in a recovery meeting, I\u2019d get a standing ovation. It\u2019s the one thing I miss about twelve-step programs. They applaud anything as long as you don\u2019t use. You can burn your house down in a fit of rage but as long as you don\u2019t pick up, you\u2019re a hero. \u201cDo you think we\u2019ll get a plea deal?\u201d \u201cI\u2019m trying, but the DA is going at this hard. Probation too. They really, really don\u2019t like you. Your husband also, but they seem overly focused on you.\u201d \u201cBut not the actual DA, right? It\u2019s the assistant DA?\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s all the same. But it\u2019s the ADA and the head of Probation. They want prison. If you weren\u2019t a white woman, you\u2019d get prison for sure.\u201d I nod because it\u2019s true. Mimi, a Latina in G, just got sentenced to four years for embezzlement: using her company credit card for personal expenses\u2014more or less the same crime that put me in G block. Everything in her case happened ridiculously fast. Arrest, sentencing, and onto the prison bus in less than a month. Mimi has two children she\u2019s raising on her own. She supports her parents and grandparents too. When she left, she said she\u2019d see me in Chowchilla. She assured me that prison is much better than jail\u2014easier. She had family members in prison, she said, so she knew what to expect. You get more visits, you get classes and workshops, you can work and stay busy. \u201cDoes the DA look at all the cases?\u201d I ask Elizabeth. \u201cLike does he know about them?\u201d \u201cOf course.\u201d It\u2019s probably not helping my case that I once dated the current district attorney, and by dated I mean had a torrid affair with him while he was living with another woman. It was 1989, and I was in my last year of college and working as a manager at Player\u2019s Pizza\u2014a sports bar and grill around the corner from the courthouse. He would come in after work, alone or with coworkers. He was tall and blond and while he introduced himself as Tom, I immediately renamed him Sven because he looked like a Nordic god. I flirted with him shamelessly, and he began to stay at Player\u2019s until closing time, waiting for me to get off work so we could spend time together. Sometimes he would take me into the courthouse after hours and make love to me in all the offices, even once in what he called the gun room. Gun rooms are sexy, and I don\u2019t even like guns. He would spend hours at my small studio apartment, letting me read through his confidential case files and discussing strategy. He was a new assistant district attorney then, a decade older than me, and I was about to go off to graduate school. When I moved back to Santa Cruz after Dylan was born, we reconnected as friends, and I would sometimes visit him in his offices at the courthouse, where, knowing my writerly curiosity, he would tell me about cases he was working on and let me listen to 911 calls. He had never lost a trial, a fact he was very proud of. He was also bitter about his first marriage ending and shared how hard the divorce was and how upset he was about the claim she had made on his pension. When Tom ran for district attorney in 2002 on a family-values, law-and-order platform, I had to laugh. There were definitely no family values happening in the gun room, but that felt like a lifetime ago. Our friendship petered out as life went on, and now was impossible given that he was technically prosecuting me. It couldn\u2019t help my case that his new wife was high up in the probation department. I didn\u2019t know if she was aware of my history with her husband, but when Elizabeth says that Probation is taking a hard line on my case, I have to consider it a possibility. On one of our early court appearances, I saw him off to the side in a huddle with other attorneys, and I wondered if they were talking about me or one of the dozens of other cases before the court that day. I was too ashamed to meet his eye, and I imagine he wasn\u2019t eager to acknowledge me either. \u201cI\u2019m going to keep at it,\u201d Elizabeth assures me. She puts a hand on her belly again. \u201cHow\u2019s your son?\u201d She used to be a CPS attorney before becoming a public defender. \u201cHe\u2019s good. He just turned four. I talk to him when I can, but it\u2019s so hard\u2026 he doesn\u2019t understand why I\u2019m not with him.\u201d I tear up. \u201cHang in there,\u201d she says kindly. When I get back the unit is in a tizzy. Rooms are getting switched, and when I ask Daddy what\u2019s going on, she says that they got word Princess was in booking. \u201cWho\u2019s Princess?\u201d Daddy looks at me like I\u2019m crazy. At times like these my position in G feels tenuous. I don\u2019t know the players on the streets. I know there are girls everyone is afraid will come into G, and other girls they wish would come in. Apparently Princess is a big-time meth dealer\u2014the original lady boss\u2014competing in a man\u2019s world and making a killing. Patricia and I are split up, and I move into a room with Kiki. It\u2019s the last room on the top tier. A corner room, so it\u2019s the biggest. Daddy is next door. Patricia moves to the bottom tier. I\u2019m happy to move in with Kiki. She\u2019s smart and funny and tough and sweet. She\u2019s barely older than Dylan so I feel most like Mama Love around her. I\u2019m anxious that Princess\u2019s arrival will mean more drugs in G. It\u2019s almost rude of me not to do drugs that are offered, but I really don\u2019t want to. I\u2019m working on my YA novel and mailing pages to Ty to type up. My mind seems full of creative ideas. I jot down notes for short story ideas. I long for a keyboard. In prison I would have access to a computer. It\u2019s the only upside of prison I can think of. When Princess arrives, Vivian and Daddy rush her upstairs. She doesn\u2019t look like a drug dealer: She\u2019s tiny with long strawberry-blond hair, pale eyes, and freckles on her face and arms. I\u2019m obligated to meet her, and when Daddy introduces me, she just flicks her eyes in my direction and ignores me. I leave their huddle in Daddy\u2019s room and lie down on my bunk. I don\u2019t want to see what she brought in. That night Kiki gets permission from one of the guards\u2014the one who brought in the McDonald\u2019s\u2014to spend the night in Daddy\u2019s room. She asks for a sleepover, and he laughs and says okay. I can hear them through the wall all night long. It\u2019s a meth party for sure. And when the moaning starts, I recall Kiki telling me that when she does meth she just wants to watch porn and fuck. My meditation is no match for the threesome next door, so I just stare into the darkness. I think about my boys asleep just a few miles away and wonder what they are dreaming about. I send them love and light and sweet dreams. I hum their favorite made-up lullaby: \u201cMommy loves you, yes she does, Mommy loves you just because\u2026\u201d Dylan, Cody, and Ty are too old for lullabies, but I sing it to them anyway. I imagine myself scratching Kaden\u2019s arm so he can fall asleep. I hum all night long until the lights come on for breakfast. Kiki doesn\u2019t eat breakfast. Neither does Daddy, Vivian, or Princess. They divide their meals among the other girls when the guards aren\u2019t looking. If a group of inmates stops eating, it\u2019s a sure sign there\u2019s meth in the unit. The meth bender lasts for three days until the drugs run out. Nobody in the unit sleeps. It\u2019s a G-block rave, and the guards don\u2019t say a word. Everyone but me from the top tier is in a sleepover cell. Eleven girls crammed into two rooms. The guards even unlock the doors so the girls can go downstairs and get hot water from the hot pot for commissary cocoa. They must know there\u2019s meth, but there are no searches. Kiki is back in my room, and she\u2019s exhausted. She looks like she\u2019s lost ten pounds in three days, but I don\u2019t comment. It\u2019s commissary night and because my mom had put twenty dollars on my books I receive a batch of chocolate and ramen and new sandals. It feels like Christmas, and the unit is busy comparing hauls and making trades like my kids do with Pok\u00e9mon cards. Suddenly, the intercom in our room crackles. Kiki and I freeze. \u201cLove, roll it up!\u201d I look at Kiki and she looks at me. \u201cWhat did he say?\u201d I ask in disbelief. \u201cHe told you to roll it up,\u201d she whispers. I walk over and press the intercom button. \u201cYeah.\u201d It\u2019s the same guard. \u201cWhat did you just say?\u201d \u201cI said, \u2018roll it up.\u2019 \u201d \u201cWhy, what did I do?\u201d \u201cYou made bail; roll it up. You got five minutes.\u201d Kiki and I look at each other in silence, and then she screams. She runs into the hallway and announces, \u201cMama Love\u2019s getting bailed out!\u201d Daddy and Vivian run out and congratulate me. I hand them my commissary food and give Kiki my new shoes. I grab all my legal papers and letters. It\u2019s not much, but I look around the cell frantically. I hand Eckhart Tolle to Kiki. \u201cRead it,\u201d I say. She laughs. \u201cI hate to read!\u201d \u201cRead it anyway,\u201d I say. \u201cTrust me.\u201d Kiki folds up my mattress, and Vivian grabs my blanket and sheet. We all head downstairs just as the guard comes in yelling my name. Daddy walks behind us. It\u2019s all happening so fast, and I call out my goodbyes. Daddy grabs my arm. I think she\u2019s going to hug me, but she pulls me in close. \u201cYou know what to do when you come back.\u201d I pull back and look at her blankly. \u201cYou will know the date when you will be remanded. You will have time to prepare. Got it?\u201d I nod quickly. She\u2019s talking about drugs, but there\u2019s no time to clarify what she\u2019s asking for specifically because the guard is walking out the door, and I\u2019m running after him with everything in my arms. I\u2019m rushed through booking, where I turn in my reds and change into the clothes I was wearing when I was arrested. When I walk out of the jail, DJ is standing beside his mom\u2019s car waiting for me. He hugs me, and I hang on to him for a long time. The night air is crisp, and there are stars in the sky. \u201cI told you I would get you out. Who takes care of you?\u201d \u201cYou do,\u201d I say. \u201cYou do.\u201d And in this moment, I believe it\u2019s true. I feel warm and safe in DJ\u2019s arms, and for a brief mindless moment I believe it will all be okay. My mother-in-law is waiting in the car, and she barely speaks to me as we drive away. It\u2019s only when we start to drive over Highway 17 toward San Jose that I realize we aren\u2019t going to our home in Aptos. \u201cWhere are we going?\u201d \u201cWe have to go sign some papers at the bail bond place, and then we\u2019re going to stay at the Saratoga house and my mom\u2019s going to the San Jose house,\u201d DJ explains. His mom owns two houses in Silicon Valley that she splits her time in. He\u2019s talking so quickly that I wouldn\u2019t be surprised if he\u2019s high. \u201cNot our house?\u201d I ask. \u201cWe can\u2019t go there, remember?\u201d He looks back at me from the passenger seat. When I don\u2019t say anything he\u2019s suddenly angry. \u201cWhen they set that fucking ridiculous bail, they also set fucking ridiculous conditions.\u201d \u201cWhat conditions?\u201d I should know this, but I wasn\u2019t planning to be alive for long, so I hadn\u2019t paid attention in court. And I haven\u2019t wanted to read the legal papers because I didn\u2019t think there was anything in them I could take issue with. After all, I was guilty of everything they\u2019d charged me with. \u201cWe aren\u2019t allowed in our fucking neighborhood, so we\u2019re not allowed back in our house. The house we own. \u201cI don\u2019t know how they can do that when we haven\u2019t been convicted,\u201d he rages on. \u201cIt\u2019s supposed to be innocent until proven guilty. We can\u2019t go to our home, they can search us at any time, no alcohol, no drugs\u2026\u201d For the first time, I realize I\u2019ll never see our home again. I didn\u2019t appreciate it while I had it, and now that it\u2019s gone, I miss it desperately. \u201c\u2026 no computers, no contact\u2026\u201d I stare out the window as he rants. Even though I\u2019ve been inside for only two and a half months, the world looks unreal to me. I think about what\u2019s happening in G right now and whether my boys know I\u2019m out. \u201cWill we be able to see the kids?\u201d I ask. \u201cTomorrow we have to see our public defenders, then go to CPS and meet with the social worker. There\u2019s a lot to do tomorrow.\u201d I haven\u2019t had an \u201ca lot to do\u201d day in a long time. I can\u2019t imagine myself in offices, talking to people, dealing with reality. One of the best things about being locked up was that the outside world was locked out. I scan myself for inner strength, but all I sense is a faint pulse. If I rolled down my window, I believe I could float out of the car like an errant balloon. I feel untethered. My mother-in-law drops us off in Saratoga and heads to her home seven miles away. \u201cThank you,\u201d I call after her as she drives off. I walk around her house like I\u2019m visiting the moon\u2014it all feels so foreign and strange. It\u2019s a big, single-level ranch-style home with a giant pool out back surrounded by grapevines. We used to bring Kaden here to swim; it was always sunny and bright\u2014my favorite place to spend an afternoon. I open the fridge and gaze in awe at all the food. Eggs and butter and bread and fruit and vegetables. I open all the cabinets and find crackers and coffee and chips and almonds and pistachios. Four kinds of cereal. I sink into her leather couch and savor its softness. It has been so long since I\u2019ve felt softness. \u201cI\u2019m going to take a shower,\u201d I say. \u201cHot water\u2026\u201d \u201cWant company?\u201d DJ gives me a little leer, and I smile. \u201cLet me do the first one alone.\u201d I go into the bathroom and lock the door behind me. I reach out and open the medicine cabinet to see what\u2019s inside. There\u2019s nothing but deodorant and Band-Aids and eye drops. A bottle of Tylenol. Only after I close the cabinet do I realize what I\u2019ve just done. What\u2019s still automatic for me. I turn on the shower and there\u2019s a knock at the door. \u201cYeah?\u201d \u201cMy mom grabbed some clothes from the house. I have no idea what she brought you. She just threw a bunch of stuff in a box. It\u2019s next to the bed.\u201d \u201cOkay, thanks.\u201d I feel awkward with DJ. The few times we saw each other on the way to and from court felt furtive and dramatic and a little exciting. We were separated lovers. Husband and wife torn asunder. But now, here in this domestic setting, I feel just like I did before the arrest. We were headed toward divorce. In the last year, while we were ripping and running, I had cheated on DJ with a man I met online who lived in Oregon. When I was loaded, I had gone to a website that married people visit when they want to cheat. I had seen the man only a few times, and they were thrilling. DJ had found out, but we never really dealt with it, and then we were arrested. I look in the mirror before I get in the shower. I am still thin but not as gaunt and gray as when I was arrested. My diet of bear claws and mystery meat has not given me the rosy glow of health. Everyone in jail is dehydrated\u2014living on the equivalent of one glass of water a day. The water that comes out of the bathroom sink tastes like rust, and no one can stand drinking more than a few sips at a time. I bet there would be less fighting, less depression, less severe mental health issues in jail if there were clean water, fruits and vegetables, and food that wasn\u2019t so processed and rancid. I turn around slowly on tiptoe, trying to see my whole body. I haven\u2019t had a real mirror in so long, just the murky fun-house mirrors in G. I have more muscle thanks to the fire camp workouts. But I also have the corpse-like pallor of someone who hasn\u2019t felt direct sunlight in months. The shower is like going to church. I stand in the stream of hot water, awed by its majestic power, and wash away G block until the water runs cold. I want to cry, need to cry, but I feel so disembodied that the need isn\u2019t connecting to my tear ducts. In my mind I am sobbing and shaking because I\u2019m so scared of whatever might happen next. But after stepping out of the shower I feel robotic. In the bedroom, DJ has lit candles, and he holds out a soft robe for me. We make love, and it feels like nothing at all. I fake the pleasure to get it over with. Even with the full weight of him on top of me, I still feel alone and lost. After, I lay awake for hours among the soft pillows and blankets worrying about our attorney visits the next day, about what CPS will say. And I think of my boys asleep in their beds. I\u2019m even farther from them now than I was in G. At least in G I could think about them possibly driving by the jail on their way to basketball games or their friends\u2019 houses. When I took a breath in the courtyard, I could imagine them breathing the same air nearby. Sometimes I would exhale and imagine my breath flying through the sky, across town, and under the crack of the door in the house where they slept. I imagined that my breath washed over them, settling into their skin, their pores, burrowing deep until it joined the blood cells traveling through their bodies. I imagined that for a brief second they could feel my love as my breath pumped through their hearts. In the morning, we take Carol\u2019s car to go to our appointments in Santa Cruz. As codefendants we have separate public defenders, mostly in case one of us wants to turn on the other at trial. DJ drops me off at my attorney\u2019s office and promises to pick me up when he\u2019s done. Elizabeth is grim and angry when I walk in. \u201cThis is so dangerous,\u201d she tells me. \u201cI\u2019m working on a plea deal for you. I\u2019d rather you were locked up and safe than out. We talked about this.\u201d \u201cI didn\u2019t know I was getting bailed out,\u201d I say. \u201cIt was a surprise.\u201d \u201cWell, that surprise could end up meaning prison time.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m not going to do anything wrong,\u201d I say. \u201cI promise. I\u2019m over two months clean.\u201d She ignores my words and my sobriety. \u201cIf you steal, if you do drugs, if you break any laws\u2014you will go to prison. If you go to trial\u2014you will go to prison. If you do what your husband does\u2014you will go to prison. This plea deal is tenuous. People are really angry and they\u2019re going to be even angrier that you\u2019re out on bail.\u201d \u201cWhat people?\u201d \u201cYour neighbors. Your ex-husband\u2019s wife. The DA is getting all kinds of calls from them. You really pissed people off. They are putting lots of pressure on him, and he\u2019s angry at you because they\u2019re angry at him.\u201d \u201cWait, the DA or the assistant DA prosecuting us?\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s all the same, the ADA is the DA\u2019s office. The DA represents the people. The people are mad.\u201d \u201cI swear I won\u2019t do anything wrong.\u201d I don\u2019t know what else to say. She seems satisfied she\u2019s made her point and that I\u2019ve heard her. \u201cWe\u2019re working on a plea deal. You\u2019re looking at a year in jail, completion of drug court, and five years of probation plus restitution.\u201d \u201cHow much is restitution?\u201d \u201cAround nineteen thousand dollars.\u201d \u201cWhat? That\u2019s impossible.\u201d \u201cAnd you have to pay half up front in order to get the plea deal.\u201d She shows me all the crimes I\u2019m charged with. I read down the list\u2014many of them I actually didn\u2019t do. I try to protest, point out that I never stole anything from a vehicle at Costco, and that I don\u2019t know these people listed here who say I stole from them. \u201cIt doesn\u2019t matter, you can only argue each charge at trial. With a plea deal it\u2019s all or nothing. You\u2019d have to plead guilty to thirty-two felonies. With a trial you could be in jail just waiting to go to trial for as long as the plea deal sentence. And if you\u2019re found guilty it will be a much longer sentence.\u201d \u201cSo I either plead guilty to all of this\u2014even the things I didn\u2019t do\u2014or go to trial and most likely go to prison?\u201d \u201cThat\u2019s it,\u201d she says. \u201cWith drug court you can get your record expunged once you successfully complete it. That\u2019s a yearlong program after you get out.\u201d It feels unfair that I must plead guilty to crimes I didn\u2019t commit, but I shove that feeling away. I don\u2019t have the luxury of fairness. I get it\u2014every unsolved credit card crime, every property theft, needs to be solved, and someone needs to pay restitution. The DA gets to clear a bunch of crimes off his slate, the victims will get paid by me, and I avoid prison. I have no legal grounds to demand I pay only for what I\u2019ve done. I also have no money and no idea how I\u2019ll pay. But I\u2019ll plead guilty to a hundred felonies if it means I can be with my boys sooner. If it means I can get Kaden back before the CPS clock runs out. I feel nauseous. I push the list over to Elizabeth, but she hands it back to me. \u201cThis is your copy.\u201d Elizabeth hands me the restitution list, and I see all the money various victims and nonvictims say I must pay them, based on pain and suffering and days of lost wages because they had to cancel a credit card. I am surprised to find any of these people on a restitution list. If a credit card company or bank wrote off the debt, shouldn\u2019t I pay back the company or the bank? If you report a card stolen, you don\u2019t have to pay the charge. I see on the list one of my neighbors claiming lost wages at $150 an hour. She works as an assistant in a medical office. That would be over a $300,000-a-year salary. There are a million different ways for people to steal, but not all stealing is considered a crime. Nobody was going to get prosecuted for stealing from me. I shake this thought away. Who am I to judge? I\u2019m in no position to assess morality or integrity. I have no high ground to stand on. \u201cWith the time you\u2019ve already served, and time off for good behavior, we\u2019re talking six or seven more months in jail. You\u2019ll get moved to Blaine Street, and hopefully it won\u2019t be so bad.\u201d I start doing the math in my head\u2014trying to figure out if I will have time to complete everything CPS will require me to do. The one-year clock to get Kaden back started ticking almost three months ago. I obviously need to be out of jail. I need a job. A place to live. Drug testing. I need to take a parenting class. I need to go to counseling. I need to have supervised visits and prove to CPS that I can and will keep my son safe. I\u2019m not even sure I know how to keep myself safe, but for the first time in a long time, I feel hope. I don\u2019t care how much I have to pay or who I have to pay it to. A year from now I could be back with all my children. This could be behind me. I could be free. \u201cDo you really think I can do the plea deal? What about DJ?\u201d \u201cHe will have the same deal. Restitution will be joint and several, meaning you are both equally obligated to pay it back. And you both have to accept the plea.\u201d \u201cI don\u2019t know how we would pay nine or ten thousand up front.\u201d \u201cYou\u2019ll have to find a way.\u201d \u201cI guess I could put it on a credit card\u2026\u201d \u201cNot funny!\u201d she snaps. \u201cAnd you have to go see Probation while you\u2019re out. They do an assessment and will make a recommendation to the court on sentencing. Call and make an appointment right away.\u201d \u201cOkay, but if there\u2019s a plea deal\u2026?\u201d \u201cThey still make a sentencing recommendation. Anything can happen. The judge could reject the plea deal. It doesn\u2019t happen often, but it can.\u201d I say my goodbyes and stand out on the street waiting for DJ. It\u2019s all a lot to take in, and I\u2019m not sure I understand all my obligations. DJ finally arrives about half an hour later. \u201cWhere were you?\u201d \u201cMaya was quick, so I went and met up with some homeboys who I was in with.\u201d Maya is his attorney. \u201cDid she tell you about the plea deal?\u201d \u201cYeah, it\u2019s all some fucking bullshit with the charges and that restitution.\u201d \u201cBut we\u2019re going to take it, right?\u201d \u201cI want to go to trial.\u201d \u201cWe can\u2019t, we can\u2019t go to trial. Kaden. Think about Kaden!\u201d I am instantly angry and slightly hysterical. \u201cYou have to agree, you have to take this. We both do. You don\u2019t want to go to prison. Are you crazy?\u201d \u201cRelax, we\u2019re going to take it, it\u2019s okay. It\u2019s just some bullshit, though.\u201d In a way I envy DJ\u2019s anger. His lack of shame. \u201cDid you see that charge from\u2026\u201d \u201cStop!\u201d I say. \u201cI don\u2019t want to talk about any of it. I can\u2019t handle it. Do you understand? That was so hard to get through, and I have nothing left in me today.\u201d \u201cOkay, but now we have to go to CPS.\u201d \u201cI know. Let\u2019s just go and get it over with.\u201d The harried social worker seems surprised to see us even though we have an appointment. She shuffles through large stacks of files to find Kaden\u2019s. \u201cWhat about seeing Kaden?\u201d I ask. \u201cCan we see him?\u201d \u201cI\u2019ll have to talk to the Parents Center\u2014they are who we contract with to supervise the visits. They will coordinate with the foster parents and you. We just didn\u2019t know you would be out to do this.\u201d I realize there are no visitation plans in place because she didn\u2019t think we\u2019d ever be out. \u201cI\u2019ll call you when I know more,\u201d she says. DJ and I drive away, and all the hope I felt earlier is gone. I\u2019m hungry and tired and overwhelmed. \u201cLet\u2019s just go home,\u201d I say. Part of me craves the simplicity and isolation of jail. \u201cI just have to make a quick stop,\u201d says DJ. I lean the passenger seat way back and close my eyes. When I open them, I see DJ has pulled into a hospital parking lot. It\u2019s the hospital where I gave birth to Cody. \u201cWait here,\u201d he says. \u201cI\u2019ll be right back.\u201d \u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d \u201cI just have to pick something up,\u201d he says, jumping out of the car. It\u2019s almost 5 p.m. and getting dark. I sit in the parking lot for over an hour. We don\u2019t have cell phones or I would call him. A security guard taps on the window to ask me what I\u2019m doing, and I explain that I\u2019m waiting for my husband. \u201cIs he a patient?\u201d he asks. \u201cHe\u2019s visiting someone,\u201d I say, the lie rolling off my tongue with ease. I suddenly feel guilty and afraid. It helps that I\u2019m sitting in my mother-in-law\u2019s Mercedes. I am still skinny from my pre-jail diet of Vicodin and chocolate, but I\u2019m dressed nicely for our appointments so I don\u2019t overly concern the guard. And I haven\u2019t done anything wrong. DJ finally shows up, breathless and hurrying. He doesn\u2019t explain his absence, and I don\u2019t ask. My anxiety is building, and I recall my attorney\u2019s warnings. When we get over the mountain and away from Santa Cruz, he passes the exit to Saratoga. I still don\u2019t say a word. He pulls into an IHOP in a strip mall in San Jose and parks on the outskirts of the lot away from the other cars. He reaches under his seat and pulls out a velvet bag. In it there\u2019s a small metal tin, a lighter, a rubber band, and a clump of black tar heroin about the size of a silver dollar. \u201cI told you I met with some guys from jail while you were in your meeting,\u201d he says. \u201cAnd then I grabbed this from the hospital.\u201d He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a long, skinny object sealed in paper and plastic. In the dome light I can read the words BIOPSY Needle and STERILE. \u201cIt\u2019s huge,\u201d he says, \u201cbut it\u2019s all I could find.\u201d I have been driving in a car with drugs in it. I was in the getaway car while he stole from the hospital. I have already violated the terms of my bail agreement. \u201cYou\u2019re going to love this,\u201d he says as he pushes up the sleeve of my sweater. I am mute as he melts the heroin into liquid and draws it into the needle. Yes, this is something I swore I would never do. But I don\u2019t have the strength to resist. He ties the band around my arm. I watch as if from a distance as he sticks the needle in my vein. It stings and tugs and burns, and then he pulls back a little on the plunger. I see my own blood folded into the brown liquid, and then before I can even take a breath, he presses the plunger aggressively and empties the needle into my vein. For a moment I feel nothing, and then warmth spreads through me. Excitement. Joy. Energy. Every good feeling flows through me. The shower wasn\u2019t church, this is church. All the day\u2019s pain washes away. A part of me marvels at this new, more efficient way of getting high. No inhaling smoke through a straw for hours. No swallowing twenty pills. I\u2019ve always loved efficiency. I don\u2019t think about the fact that it\u2019s also a more efficient way of killing myself or that this is what killed my own brother. My attorney\u2019s words of warning are forgotten. My brief, fragile sobriety is gone. As the heroin swallows me like a pill, I close my eyes and pretend this is good. I pretend this is love. \n chapter 11 THE NEIGHBOR FROM HELL The heroin makes it easy to cope with what\u2019s to come, and I quickly learn how to shoot up all by myself. DJ\u2019s mom wants us to be where she can keep an eye on us, so we move into the spare bedroom in her San Jose house where she now lives full time. We lock the door and sit on the floor and start our day with the ritual of injecting heroin. Breaking off a chunk of the black rock and holding a lighter underneath a tiny, silver-dollar-size metal pot DJ has acquired from some DIY crafts store so that it liquefies. I have no idea how much heroin is enough, or how much is too much. DJ seems to be an expert, so he measures it out and draws it into the syringe. He has gone to a needle exchange place, so the giant biopsy needle has been replaced by dozens of tiny needles like the ones diabetics use. \u201cIt\u2019s great,\u201d he says. \u201cYou bring back the used, and they give you new ones.\u201d Once in a while I try to talk to him about the risk we are taking\u2014how we are violating the terms of bail and putting our plea bargain in jeopardy\u2014but he shuts me down. He assures me that because we live outside the county we won\u2019t be surprise searched. The more times I shoot heroin, the less I worry. I am living in the moment. It\u2019s a bastardized version of the present I learned about in The Power of Now. DJ and I soon realize that it\u2019s impossible to subsidize a heroin habit without getting a job or committing a crime. A job is out of the question since we\u2019re due to be sentenced in a month. Plus, getting high is once again our full-time work. So we have to brainstorm. One morning DJ disappears into the master bedroom closet. When he comes out, he is holding three suit jackets, all with the tags on them. \u201cYou won\u2019t believe what\u2019s in there,\u201d he says. \u201cTons of new clothes. All from Nordstrom.\u201d I don\u2019t understand what he\u2019s so excited about. The jackets are obviously his stepdad Freddy\u2019s, who is currently living in Iran. \u201cNordstrom has the most amazing return policy,\u201d says DJ. I shrug like he\u2019s maybe lost his mind, but I want to be polite about it. \u201cThe tags are still on. We can return these. For cash.\u201d I see where he is going with this, but I also see a problem. \u201cWe don\u2019t have the receipts,\u201d I say. \u201cWe can\u2019t return something without a receipt.\u201d \u201cYou can at Nordstrom,\u201d says DJ. \u201cLet\u2019s go!\u201d When we get to the store I refuse to go inside. I don\u2019t even like returning things that I have legitimately bought, so I\u2019m certainly not going to return something I didn\u2019t buy. They will see my guilt a mile away. I sit in the car and watch all the shoppers passing by. Are any of them doing nefarious deeds\u2014or am I the shadiest person in this lot? After half an hour, I start to get anxious. What if DJ has been arrested? The minute I think this, the drugs wear off. I am me again, and I am wondering what the fuck I\u2019m doing here. I vow that if DJ comes out, we will get clean. We will not do anything shady. We will focus on what\u2019s important\u2014getting Kaden back. I start to pray. When he finally emerges, he\u2019s not carrying the clothes and he\u2019s not in handcuffs. I exhale and try to read his face to see what emotion he is conveying. He looks pissed. I don\u2019t say a word as he gets behind the wheel. It\u2019s only when we are pulling out of the parking lot that he turns to me. \u201cA little over three hundred,\u201d he says before I can even ask. He says this so proudly, like a stockbroker with a bullish pick that has paid off. \u201cThere was such a long line at returns; we need to go to a different Nordstrom next time. And they gave me a hassle without the receipts. Asking how I had paid for the suits so they could refund the correct payment method. I got it done, though.\u201d And just like that I forget my parking-lot vow to get clean. The next time DJ goes into the closet he comes out with a giant bag of receipts. \u201cI think Freddy has every receipt for all those clothes.\u201d \u201cIt looks like he has every receipt he\u2019s ever gotten.\u201d We empty the bag onto the dining room table and start pulling out the Nordstrom ones, and then we try to match the receipt numbers to the clothes in the closet that still have tags on them. It\u2019s time-consuming, so I ask DJ why we are doing this if the return policy is so great. \u201cInsurance,\u201d he says. With our habit fully funded, we can focus on getting shit done. We meet with our separate probation officers for our reviews and find out they are recommending four years in prison. I\u2019m glad the twenty-seven years is no longer on the table, but four years means we will lose Kaden. The plea deal must go through. CPS wasn\u2019t prepared for us to be out on bail, and because we are temporarily living in a different county, they are stymied about how to handle this new development. I call the social worker every day to see if I can have a supervised visit with Kaden, go to court-ordered therapy, take some positive-discipline classes, anything that will move me closer to meeting their requirements for reunifying with him by the one-year deadline. But nothing moves quickly in the system, and CPS is waiting to see if I\u2019m sentenced to prison before they start me with services to reunify. I haven\u2019t seen my older boys once since I\u2019ve been out. Every time I try to arrange something with Bryan and Darcy, they are magically busy. I\u2019m desperate to see my boys, see how they are, see if they are angry or sad. I talk to them on the phone, but I need to hold them. I need to look in their eyes and be sure they are doing as okay as they say. I need to look in their eyes and see if they still love me. It\u2019s a tightrope to walk because while CPS has barred me from seeing Kaden without CPS arranging and controlling the visit, Dylan, Cody, and Ty aren\u2019t under the control of CPS. But they are under the control of Bryan and Darcy. I can\u2019t just show up at their house because that\u2019s also where Kaden lives. I don\u2019t feel like I\u2019m in any place to demand my right to see them. I\u2019m not even sure what my rights are while I\u2019m out on bail. All I know is I don\u2019t want to make Bryan and Darcy angry. DJ\u2019s ex is fine with him seeing Hailey and Logan while he\u2019s out, but I skip those visits. I don\u2019t have the energy to be a stepmom to them when I can\u2019t be a mom to my own. It\u2019s not kind, but it\u2019s true. Plus, I feel safer in San Jose than in Santa Cruz. I\u2019m too afraid I will run into a neighbor or a friend from recovery or a parent I know from school or the deputies who arrested me. I feel exposed in Santa Cruz. Vulnerable. In San Jose, I\u2019m anonymous. Cody is on the high school varsity basketball team, and when I find out last minute that they have a game in San Jose near where we\u2019re staying I decide to go to the gym. I can\u2019t wait to see him, even from a distance. I want to cheer him on. It\u2019s a workaround that doesn\u2019t require talking to and scheduling with Bryan and Darcy, and DJ agrees to go with me. When we arrive it\u2019s halftime, and the minute I step through the doors I look across the court and my breath catches. Kaden is dribbling a toddler-sized basketball. Our eyes lock, and he drops the ball and sprints over to me. I scoop him up and smother him with kisses and hugs. Bryan walks over. \u201cHey,\u201d I say. \u201cHey.\u201d \u201cI had no idea you would be here, he would be here. I don\u2019t know what the rules are with CPS when I run into him in a public place. I\u2019m sorry, I had no idea. I\u2019m not trying to do something\u2026\u201d \u201cI\u2019m not worried about it,\u201d says Bryan. \u201cI can just leave,\u201d I say, but Kaden is already holding on to my leg. \u201cIt\u2019s fine.\u201d Kaden sits on my lap for the second half of the game, and I kiss his cheeks and the back of his head every few seconds. He is warm and soft, and I close my eyes and inhale his scent over and over. He looks small to me, as if he hasn\u2019t grown a bit since I was arrested. I bring him back to Bryan when the game ends. \u201cThank you,\u201d I say. Bryan just laughs\u2014it\u2019s not a real laugh, just the way he laughs when things are awkward. I give Cody a big hug. \u201cCan I take the older boys to lunch in a couple of weeks?\u201d I ask Bryan. \u201cPlease?\u201d He is quiet. DJ is on the other side of the gym. He doesn\u2019t want to talk to Bryan, and I\u2019m annoyed that he can\u2019t be gracious toward my ex. Thankful, even. If it weren\u2019t for Bryan, Kaden would be with strangers. \u201cI guess so. Let me talk to Darcy.\u201d \u201cYou\u2019re their dad. It\u2019s not really up to her,\u201d I say quietly. I want him to grow a spine, but I get it. He just shrugs and picks Kaden up. \u201cLet\u2019s go, buddy.\u201d I blow kisses to Kaden over Bryan\u2019s shoulder all the way across the gym and until he\u2019s out the door. Cody lets me hug him again even though he\u2019s sixteen, and his teammates are watching, and I\u2019m his mom who\u2019s out on bail. \u201cI love you,\u201d I whisper in his ear. \u201cAnd I\u2019m so, so, sorry.\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s okay, Mom,\u201d says Cody. \u201cI love you too. Just get better, please.\u201d We are halfway home and I\u2019m in bliss, not because of any heroin, but because I got to hold Kaden, see Cody. When my cell phone rings, I answer it without looking at the number. \u201cWhat the fuck do you think you\u2019re doing? You are going back to jail!\u201d I recognize Darcy\u2019s voice immediately. She\u2019s screaming. \u201cYou aren\u2019t allowed to see Kaden; you just violated the CPS order. I\u2019m calling them in the morning.\u201d I panic and try to explain that it was an accident and that I had no way of knowing he would be there. \u201cBryan said it was okay,\u201d I say. \u201cI offered to leave when we came in, but he said it was okay.\u201d She hangs up on me. \u201cOh my God,\u201d I say to DJ. \u201cWhat do we do?\u201d I start to hyperventilate. \u201cIt\u2019s fine,\u201d he says. \u201cIt\u2019s not fine. It\u2019s not going to be fine.\u201d I\u2019m so scared I can barely breathe. Following all CPS rules is a condition of bail. If we violate bail, the judge won\u2019t accept the plea. \u201cCall the social worker.\u201d I call the social worker and leave her a long, rambling message about what happened. It gets cut off, so I call back and start all over again. I am awake all night watching the clock. I call again at 8 a.m. and beg the social worker to call me. All morning I sit and stare at my phone. Finally, at 1 p.m. the social worker calls. She seems unconcerned. \u201cIt happens,\u201d she says. \u201cIt\u2019s okay.\u201d She doesn\u2019t tell me if Darcy called her or what was said. \u201cWe\u2019re trying to arrange a supervised visit for you while you\u2019re out, but it\u2019s been\u2026 umm\u2026 difficult.\u201d I think I know the name of the difficulty\u2014the one screaming at me on the phone last night. When we hang up, I lie on the bed, relieved. This all has to stop, I think. We need to stop using. I say it and I mean it, but the truth is, I can\u2019t stop. I won\u2019t stop. And I have no idea why. My attorney was right, I was safer in G. I\u2019m not ready to be out in the world. I\u2019m not recovered, not even close. I\u2019m worse than I ever was. I can\u2019t stop hurting myself even when I know it\u2019s hurting my boys. I don\u2019t know how to cope with the normal everyday world of minor problems without drugs, so I certainly have no way to cope with life when my freedom is at risk. When my children are at risk. I fall asleep to these thoughts and wake up an hour later in so much pain I can\u2019t breathe. My left arm is swollen from elbow to fingertips. It looks like a giant balloon animal. If balloon animals were covered in track marks. I have no idea what it is. DJ is sitting on the floor preparing his medicine. \u201cDJ,\u201d I whisper. \u201cYeah?\u201d He looks up. \u201cCan you take me to the hospital?\u201d In the emergency room the triage nurse takes my vitals and looks at my arm, which is now twice as big as it was when I woke up. It\u2019s so swollen I can\u2019t bend my fingers. I have to hold the entire arm up with my right hand. I\u2019m like the girl in Willy Wonka who blew up into a blueberry. \u201cWhy did you do this to yourself?\u201d she asks. \u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d I say. I wish I knew. I wish I could say I did this because this one thing happened to me this one time. It would be so much easier for everyone. I wish I could trace it to being born prematurely, or early-childhood attachment issues, or being abandoned, starved, abused. I wish I could say it\u2019s because every time in my life I\u2019ve wanted to say no to someone I never have. I wish I could say it\u2019s because of karma. A past life where I agreed to be an addict in this life. I would blame it on my brain chemistry if I could, or a mental health diagnosis if I had one. It would be so much easier if every addict knew why they were destroying themselves. When I\u2019m on drugs, I feel happy, I feel like I belong in the world, I feel joy no matter what else is happening around me. Drugs give me what I\u2019m looking for, what I need and crave. The truth is simple: Getting high feels better than not getting high. And until that changes, no addict will change. I am admitted to the hospital and immediately placed on IV antibiotics. The heroin has caused a massive infection in my arm, and most likely it\u2019s been building for weeks. I just hadn\u2019t noticed. The doctors are worried about sepsis. When my fever spikes dangerously high I make DJ promise nobody will know I\u2019m here. \u201cThey can\u2019t,\u201d I say. \u201cNot Bryan and Darcy. Not the boys. Nobody!\u201d The doctors are pumping morphine into my system for the pain in my arm, which prevents me from detoxing. A week after I\u2019ve been admitted DJ comes to see me. \u201cMy mom and I went to the Aptos house and packed everything up. I got permission from the judge.\u201d \u201cDid you see any neighbors?\u201d I ask. \u201cNo. And I wouldn\u2019t care if I did.\u201d I don\u2019t understand DJ\u2019s anger. It\u2019s like he doesn\u2019t feel bad for what we did. I would be mortified if I saw anyone and I\u2019m grateful I didn\u2019t have to pack up our home. \u201cThey\u2019re foreclosing on the house,\u201d DJ tells me. I close my eyes. A part of me thought maybe I would still have a home for my boys when this was all over. I just want to make them breakfast and dinner. I want to be annoyed that I have to pick up after them. I want to sit on the edge of their beds and hear about their friends and their schoolwork. But it\u2019s gone. All of it. When I open my eyes, DJ is fiddling with my IV. \u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d \u201cI brought you a present.\u201d He pulls out a needle with brown liquid in it. \u201cWatch this.\u201d He quickly inserts the needle into my IV port, and the heroin flows through the tube and into my arm. A warm rush floods my system and I close my eyes. I surrender. This is who I am. This is what I do. There\u2019s an angry mob of about twenty people outside the courtroom doors. The mob is composed of my neighbors, and Darcy almost seems to be its leader, with Bryan by her side. Who is watching Kaden if they\u2019re both here watching me? DJ and I spent the night in a motel near the courtroom. We are to officially plead guilty to thirty-two felonies, and per the plea deal will each get one year in jail and a year in drug court. The judge still has to approve the plea and sentence, though. And after the court appearance, we\u2019ll go directly back to jail. We were up all night using and preparing to go back inside. When we get to the courthouse our attorneys meet us outside the courtroom and escort us away from the mob. \u201cWe have a problem,\u201d says my new attorney, Jonathan. He\u2019s Elizabeth\u2019s husband, and he\u2019s taken over my case while she\u2019s out with the baby. \u201cSomeone told the DA who told the judge that you were bragging about your light sentence. Someone told all your neighbors the same thing.\u201d I am shocked. I never bragged about anything, and I haven\u2019t talked to anyone about the plea deal. \u201cWe\u2019re going in to speak to the judge now, but I need to know what you said and who you said it to.\u201d \u201cI\u2026 I\u2019ve\u2026 never bragged or talked to anyone.\u201d \u201cYou must have. Someone knows the details of the plea.\u201d I suddenly recall the sushi lunch with my older boys. Bryan had agreed, and we had gone to one of their favorite restaurants. I had told them it was good news, that with good behavior, in six months I would be out of jail and we could get back to our lives. I wasn\u2019t bragging, I was reassuring my children their mom would be okay. I told them I could get my record expunged. I was trying to cheer them up. They must have told someone, who told someone, and like a twisted game of telephone, someone went to the prosecutor and the neighbors with a distorted version. \u201cSomeone told the neighbors and the DA you were laughing at them all.\u201d I don\u2019t want to think it was Darcy in a last-ditch attempt to put me in prison. I\u2019d much rather believe it was an angry neighbor; and given the sentiment of many of my neighbors it could well have been. Still, nothing gets the ex-wife out of the picture more completely than a long prison sentence. The extreme public humiliation is just a bonus. I shake the thoughts away, because ultimately it doesn\u2019t matter who it was. It\u2019s happened. It\u2019s happening. I risk a glance at the crowd. Darcy is staring at me, her hair perfectly coiffed, her makeup done just so, and her thin lips sneering. She is the Queen of Hearts yelling \u201cOff with her head!\u201d Her vitriol feels palpable. Maybe I am reading her wrong, maybe I am projecting, but it all feels surreal and I just want to be anywhere but here. Jonathan clears his throat. \u201cThe ADA and I are going to talk to the judge in his chambers. Sit here until the bailiff calls everyone in. I\u2019ll see you in the courtroom.\u201d We sit on a bench and wait for the bailiff to call us in. I can\u2019t look at my neighbors\u2014people I used to think of as friends. People whose houses my boys still play at. I care about these people. I care about their children. Their anger is hard to face. In the entire crowd of my neighbors, I stole from only two of them. It was wrong. I violated them, I know this. I am the perpetrator and they are the victims. They trusted me and I betrayed their trust. I want to run up to each one and say I\u2019m sorry. I want to hug them and tell them it wasn\u2019t personal, that it wasn\u2019t the real me, but I can only sit here with my head down. I think about the dollar amount I stole from my neighbors\u2014it amounts to a little over five hundred dollars for one family and I used another neighbor\u2019s social security number to get an Amazon credit card so I could buy a Kindle and a few parenting books. All together it\u2019s less than a thousand dollars that I have stolen from this mob of neighbors. We had to pay back nine thousand to get the plea deal. I know that what I stole amounts to more than just dollars\u2014I know that I betrayed all of their trust, their sense of safety in their own homes, and because I have hurt some, I have hurt all. I betrayed this community of cul-de-sac parents not only because I was their friend but also because addicts and criminals aren\u2019t supposed to host playdates and work on fundraisers and they aren\u2019t supposed to look like me. Addicts aren\u2019t supposed to look like them. Criminals are never supposed to live next door. When we go into court, I see someone with a camera off to the side. Every time he aims it at me, I turn away. I try to hold my hands over my face as much as possible and thwart his shot. I can\u2019t cover my face while the judge addresses me, but otherwise I think I\u2019ve avoided him getting a clear view. DJ sits next to me, and in the middle of the sentencing he falls asleep because he\u2019s high. I poke him in the ribs to wake him. One person speaks on our behalf, the director of a local rehab program who knows us and the judge. She stands up and says this is a health problem, a drug problem, not a criminal problem. The jail is overcrowded with people whose crimes are a symptom of their addiction. We are good people, she implores the judge, and the judge acknowledges that many people from the recovery world, people I helped in my six years of sobriety, have written to him on my behalf. DJ and I don\u2019t speak. Jonathan expresses my remorse for me. DJ\u2019s lawyer doesn\u2019t say a word. When the judge approves the plea, I glance over at Darcy. She is frowning. Everyone against me is sitting together with Bryan and Darcy on the opposite side of the courtroom. She and my ex don\u2019t even live in Aptos, so I don\u2019t know how they have become so close with our former neighbors. It\u2019s like a sad wedding where no one is sitting on my side during the ceremony, and the other side is all waiting for their moment to object. Our time out on bail has almost killed me, and I\u2019m relieved that it\u2019s over. Two weeks in the hospital has left me weak. Two months of injecting heroin has been two months too many. I just want to get to Blaine Street. CPS has agreed to bring Kaden once a week to see me there. He can sit in my lap, and I can kiss his chubby cheeks. My boys can visit me on the weekends if Bryan brings them. They couldn\u2019t come to the main jail where visitors are separated by plexiglass and have to speak through telephones. In Blaine Street we can visit in person, we can talk. I am wearing a long skirt and a light blue sweater. When I hold my arms out to the bailiff to handcuff me, I see that blood has seeped through the arms of my sweater. He sees it too. What he doesn\u2019t see is the tobacco, Vicodin, heroin, and two needles packed into an overstuffed condom and hidden inside me. It was uncomfortable sitting in the courtroom with a vagina full of contraband, and it\u2019s even harder to walk behind the bailiff. I can feel the package slipping. The van takes us to the main jail, and DJ and I sit in the reception area. We have to get new mugshots taken for our ID cards. A man in his early twenties is sitting in one of the plastic seats behind us. \u201cWhat are you two doing here?\u201d \u201cGoing to jail,\u201d I say. \u201cTogether? That\u2019s so cute.\u201d I turn to see if he\u2019s serious, and he is. It\u2019s not cute, and I\u2019m exhausted and just want to get to my bunk and lie down. I know I\u2019m going to detox all over again in G, but hopefully it won\u2019t be worse than the first time, which was bad but not so bad that a few hot water bottles didn\u2019t make me feel better. I know the girls in G will take care of me. Especially when they find out what I\u2019m bringing them. I can\u2019t go to Blaine Street until the classification officer sends me. Hopefully it will happen within the week. Now that I\u2019m sentenced, I can count down the days until I\u2019m out. Now that I\u2019m sentenced, I can make a plan with CPS for reunification. Now that I\u2019m sentenced, I can separate from DJ. I know I\u2019m about to be locked up again for three times as long as before, but in many ways it feels like freedom. I don\u2019t have to worry about anything on the outside besides my boys. DJ leaves first, and then a female guard I don\u2019t recognize takes me into the big room where we spent the night in the cage. I know there is a lawsuit pending about strip searches in the jail, it\u2019s been all over the local news, so I\u2019ve been pretty confident I won\u2019t have one. But now that I\u2019m here and about to change into my reds, it hits me how stupid it is to be carrying drugs in. If I get caught it\u2019s another charge, and I definitely won\u2019t get to Blaine Street. The guard has me walk through a metal detector, which is new. When I do it goes off: a loud shriek and a flashing red light. I hold out my hands, and then I show her I have no pockets. She pats me down and has me walk through again. Everything lights up and I begin to sweat. Fuck. I walk through for a third time and when it goes off I grasp at anything to explain it to her other than the needles in my vagina. \u201cI\u2019m wearing an underwire bra,\u201d I say. \u201cLook.\u201d I lean forward so she can look down the V of my sweater. She is quiet for a moment and then shrugs and says okay. She takes off my handcuffs so I can change, and I surreptitiously shove the package back up inside me while putting on the jail-issued granny panties. She gives me my bedding, and this time I know to ask for my hygiene and a cup. When I step into G, there is a moment of silence before everyone starts yelling, \u201cMama Love! Mama Love!\u201d Kiki and Vivian and Nina run up to hug me. Daddy is on the top tier next to a woman I don\u2019t recognize who is giving me the once-over and looking skeptical. Kiki pulls me up the stairs and into the room at the top I used to share with Patricia. \u201cThis is our room,\u201d she says. Daddy and Vivian pile in after her while Nina stands watch outside the door. I am happy to see them all, but I just want to sleep. A long day in court has taken its toll, and I can feel myself starting to detox. I\u2019m not ready for that. I\u2019m hoping to use what I brought in to medically detox myself\u2014taper my dose a little bit each day. I pull out the condom and empty the contents on Kiki\u2019s bed. While they look at the gifts I\u2019ve brought, I flush the condom down the toilet. The guards go through our trash. \u201cI brought two needles,\u201d I say. \u201cOne is mine. You guys can share the other one or not, but I don\u2019t share mine.\u201d I break off some heroin and give each of them a piece. \u201cWe\u2019ll share the tobacco,\u201d I say. \u201cThe pills are mine to help with detox.\u201d Nina opens the door, startling us. \u201cDon\u2019t forget about me,\u201d she says, quickly scanning Kiki\u2019s bed and our hands to see what we have. \u201cNever,\u201d I say, and I break off a piece of my heroin for her. When everyone leaves, Kiki and I quickly catch up. \u201cDid you get the deluxe chocolate package I sent to you from commissary?\u201d I ask. \u201cWas that you? I had no idea. It was massive. Thanks so much!\u201d \u201cOf course,\u201d I say. I couldn\u2019t use my real name when I ordered the commissary, because I had used a fake credit card number to purchase the pack. Kiki had helped me, and I wanted to help her. Plus, she loved chocolate. \u201cHow are things in here?\u201d I ask. She settles in to give me all the gossip from the two months I\u2019ve been gone. \u201cThings aren\u2019t the same in here since you left,\u201d she says. \u201cThere have been some bad fights. There\u2019s this one chick locked in solitary in Nina\u2019s old room below us. She\u2019s a fighter, but they don\u2019t have room anywhere else for her. Did you see all the sleds?\u201d \u201cWhat are sleds?\u201d \u201cThe plastic things all over the freeway that look like snow sleds?\u201d I hadn\u2019t noticed anything when I walked in. \u201cThe jail is at, like, double capacity. They are going to put sleds in all our rooms too. It\u2019s such bullshit. They aren\u2019t allowed to have so many people in here, but nobody cares.\u201d I look around the room and try to imagine another body living in here\u2014it seems impossible. \u201cI\u2019m getting to Blaine Street as fast as I can,\u201d I say. \u201cThey\u2019re going to let Kaden visit me there. I got a year sentence but with what I\u2019ve already done and good time I can be out in September.\u201d Kiki squeals and jumps up to hug me. \u201cWe need to make you a calendar,\u201d she says. \u201cI have paper and pencils. What\u2019s your out date?\u201d We rummage through my court paperwork until we find my out date. \u201cAfter dinner we\u2019ll get a little buzz on and then make your calendar. This is the best day ever.\u201d I smile. \u201cI just need to take a little nap though, okay?\u201d \u201cOkay Mama Love, whatever you need!\u201d Kiki bounces out of the room, and I know the giddiness she is feeling. It\u2019s the high before the high. Her dopamine is firing just thinking about the little piece of dope hidden in her bra. I get under the covers and curl up on my side. I push the images of the day in court\u2014Darcy, my neighbors, the reporter\u2014out of my head, and I sleep like I have just run a marathon. When I wake up the next morning, I see that Kiki has made me a calendar and taped it on the wall beside my bed. Yesterday is crossed off. It feels like progress. Like hope. When breakfast comes, there\u2019s a guard I haven\u2019t seen before. He\u2019s about my age with short brown hair with a little gray at the temples and a big smile. He\u2019s someone I would talk to if I ran into him at a bookstore or a bar\u2014he\u2019s tall and cute and I\u2019ve always been a sucker for gray temples. He hands me my tray and I give him a big smile. \u201cGood morning,\u201d I say. \u201cThank you.\u201d \u201cWait,\u201d he says as I start to turn away. \u201cI have something else for you.\u201d When I turn back around, he\u2019s holding today\u2019s paper. \u201cYou\u2019re famous. Or infamous. Should I call you \u2018The Neighbor from Hell\u2019?\u201d \u201cWhat?\u201d \u201cYou can have this one.\u201d He hands me the Santa Cruz Sentinel and on the front page, in full color, is my face looking up plaintively. The reporter got the shot. My picture takes up the full half above the fold, the article is below. I see the headline and my stomach drops. APTOS \u201cNEIGHBORS FROM HELL\u201d SENTENCED IN MASSIVE ID THEFT CASE. The guard laughs and picks up the next tray. I bring the paper over to the table and sit my tray on it so I don\u2019t have to look at my picture. I think about my boys going to school today and seeing this. I think about everyone who has ever known me seeing this. I used to coach Little League, I was on the school board, I was a real estate agent way back when I first left Bryan\u2014everyone I ever did business with is seeing this. I think about the parents of all my boys\u2019 friends, their teachers, their coaches\u2014all reading this headline. Massive ID Theft Case. Daddy sits next to me with her tray. \u201cWhy did he give you a paper?\u201d she asks. \u201cBecause I\u2019m on the front page.\u201d \u201cNo way. Give it to me.\u201d \u201cNo,\u201d I say, but Daddy has already pulled it out from under my tray, and she\u2019s hollering, \u201cMama Love is in the papers!\u201d \u201cStop, please\u2026\u201d Daddy starts reading the article out loud. I don\u2019t want to know what it says. Everyone gathers around as she reads it. G block thinks this is funny, but I can\u2019t listen. I put my hands over my ears and run up the stairs to my room. I can\u2019t breathe. My ears are ringing. This isn\u2019t funny, it\u2019s a disaster. It\u2019s my disaster. I will never be able to show my face again in Santa Cruz. When I get out of here, I will have to move. Daddy and Kiki come into the room with the paper. \u201cHey, sorry,\u201d says Daddy. \u201cIt\u2019s okay,\u201d I say. \u201cI get it.\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s a great picture,\u201d says Kiki. \u201cYour skin looks so good.\u201d They\u2019re trying to be kind, and kindness is precious in jail. I offer them a weak smile. \u201cYou want your tray? Nina is guarding it.\u201d \u201cNo, I\u2019m not hungry.\u201d Daddy has the paper in her hand. \u201cHere,\u201d she says. \u201cI don\u2019t want it. Can you rip it up and throw it away?\u201d Daddy nods. \u201cAt least we can have coffee and a cigarette. Should we post up on the steps outside?\u201d Kiki seems antsy and I know it\u2019s because of the stuff I brought. I throw her the tobacco and papers. \u201cYou go ahead.\u201d After she leaves, I look at Daddy. \u201cSo how bad is it\u2026 the article?\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s not great.\u201d \u201cThat\u2019s what I figured.\u201d I stay high for the next few days and try not to think about the article. When my heroin is finally gone, I go to bed early but wake up a few hours later, shortly after lights out. I am feverish and sick. It feels too quick, but there\u2019s no mistaking this for what it is\u2014I\u2019m detoxing, and it\u2019s coming in hot. I run to the metal toilet and vomit. \u201cSorry,\u201d I say to Kiki when she wakes up. \u201cSor\u2026\u201d I can\u2019t get any more words out, and the vomiting goes on for hours\u2014long after there is nothing left to get out. I hang on to the toilet\u2019s cold rim and shiver and shake while Kiki softly snores. In the early morning everything comes out the other end, and I beg Kiki to give me privacy. It\u2019s only 4 a.m., but I can\u2019t be so sick sitting on a toilet with someone in the same small room. \u201cThe doors are still locked, where can I go?\u201d Kiki asks grumpily. \u201cI know\u2026\u201d I cry. \u201cI\u2019m sorry.\u201d When the locks pop at breakfast, Kiki runs out of the room. I have never felt so ill. Liquid is pouring out of my nose and eyes. I have never detoxed like this. I know there is Vicodin under my pillow but it won\u2019t help me now. I can\u2019t even swallow water. Kiki checks on me at lunch. I am lying with my cheek against the cold cement at the base of the toilet. I can\u2019t get up, but I tell her I\u2019m fine. One minute I am freezing cold and the next I am burning hot. This is death, I think, this is the death I deserve. At dinner, Kiki comes back in. I try to tell her again that I am fine, but my mouth can\u2019t form words. I vaguely hear her yelling and I think she is pushing the button, but I am watching from far away, and she is just a tiny, blurry speck on a vast horizon in this small cell. I don\u2019t register the two guards pulling me off the floor and half carrying me down the stairs and out of G. I come to in the medical unit, and the nurse is pissed. The classification guard is standing over the bed as well. \u201cYou must have brought something in with you to be so sick now,\u201d he says. I think of the drugs under my pillow, and I hope Kiki hid them. They will search the room. I am so, so stupid. I risked my whole family yet again for what\u2014to belong in G? To be a big deal there? \u201cI just have a slow metabolism,\u201d I whisper. He shakes his head in disgust. \u201cYou need fluids,\u201d says the nurse. She hands me some Pedialyte. \u201cAnd there\u2019s an abscess in your arm. It\u2019s infected. You\u2019re going to get antibiotics three times a day until it clears.\u201d I have nothing to say in my defense so I sleep. When I get back to G days later, the worst of my detox is over. Kiki is waiting in our room and seems nervous when she sees me. \u201cI\u2019ve never seen anyone so pale before,\u201d she says. \u201cI thought you were dead.\u201d \u201cI was,\u201d I say. \u201cI kept pushing the button and screaming until they came. It fucking took forever, the motherfuckers.\u201d \u201cThanks,\u201d I say. I look over at my pillow. \u201cDid you hide the stuff?\u201d Kiki looks down and away. \u201cYeah.\u201d \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d \u201cWell, I didn\u2019t think you were coming back\u2026\u201d I realize she must have taken the rest of what I brought in and used it or traded it. In the normal world of jail this would be cause for someone to get rolled up and probably a beatdown. \u201cI don\u2019t care,\u201d I say. \u201cI\u2019m done.\u201d Kiki is relieved and instantly solicitous. \u201cLet me make you some hot water bottles. Oh, and mail came last night for you. It\u2019s under the blanket.\u201d I pull out a large manila envelope and get under the blanket. I don\u2019t recognize the name or PO box for the return address. It says Mary Hill. I don\u2019t know a Mary Hill. I open it up and there\u2019s a giant stack of printed pages\u2014at least fifty. The first few pages are a photocopy of the newspaper headline and article. Somebody made sure to reduce the size so it fit on a normal page of paper. After the article and in the dozens of pages after is a printout of what must be the online comments to the article. I start reading them and don\u2019t stop for an hour. Someone writes \u201cher poor boys,\u201d and then I see a comment from what must be Darcy writing back: \u201cthe boys are fine.\u201d Others talk about how they used to see me at NA meetings\u2014so much for twelve-step anonymity. I can figure out who a few of the commenters are by their usernames. Others are strangers, though. Hundreds of them. Saying I should be in prison, calling me a sociopath, saying I am the worst kind of person in the world. People who are outraged that I am not going to prison. And then there are the more ominous ones. There are ways to make sure people like that go back once they get out. They will get theirs on the street. I read the comments over and over. And each negative word burrows through my skin and latches onto my bones. The hatred, the vitriol, the threats become a chorus in my head. It sings to me a song of my own badness, and the melody settles in and plays on repeat. Everything I have been before this moment\u2014daughter, sister, student, teacher, wife, neighbor, volunteer, employee, boss, coach, friend, mother, human\u2014is gone. The community has spoken. Everything I have been is now erased. There are so many names for me in these comments. I am a criminal, a thief, an addict, a felon, a plague on society, a sociopath, a liar. The Neighbor from Hell. \n chapter 12 PUSH AND PULL I can\u2019t go to Blaine Street until the abscess clears, and each passing day makes me more anxious. Daddy leaves for prison, and two of the girls that people had feared coming in from the streets have arrived\u2014Christina and Denise. We shuffle the rooms, and Kiki and I move back to the big corner room. There are almost more sleds than bunks on the freeway and almost every locked-door cell has a sled in it too. Christina moves into our room and takes an instant dislike to me because I don\u2019t fawn over her. I have no idea who she is from the streets, but Kiki defers to her. Because Christina doesn\u2019t like me, Kiki starts treating me differently when she\u2019s around. It hurts. Every day for a week, a new fight breaks out because someone looked at someone wrong. The overcrowding has made everyone grumpy, and girls press the buzzer to go on time-outs every hour. The guards are stressed. Tensions and tempers rise. Mama Love\u2019s way of doing time in G is no longer the way. There is bloodshed, there is division among races. The whites and the Latinas who affiliate with the southern, or Sure\u00f1o, gangs fight with the Blacks and the Latinas who identify with the Norte\u00f1o, or northern, gangs. There is also rivalry between the Westside and Eastside Gs of Santa Cruz, which, despite the confusing geography, also line up with the Sure\u00f1os and Norte\u00f1os in ways I can\u2019t decipher. Christina has brought in meth. She and Kiki do it and are up all night having sex and I am forced to listen. The next day Kiki takes me aside. \u201cYou need to do some meth.\u201d \u201cWhat? No\u2026 why?\u201d \u201cChristina doesn\u2019t trust you\u2014she thinks if you don\u2019t do some, you\u2019re a snitch.\u201d \u201cThat\u2019s ridiculous,\u201d I say. But there is no logic in G and certainly not with Christina. Her man is a big-time drug dealer, and all the girls are afraid of him. His power gives Christina power. I don\u2019t know him, and unless she\u2019s driving carpool someday, I doubt I will ever see her after G. I can\u2019t have any trouble if I want to get to Blaine Street. Kiki is stuck in G for her entire two-year sentence this time because she has too many marks against her for smoking and fighting. She\u2019s also banned because one time when she was in Blaine and working kitchen duty she walked up to the edge of the river that runs along the parking lot and they called it an escape attempt. But she just wanted to see some real water on her way to work. \u201cShe\u2019s talking about fighting you.\u201d I laugh at the idea of fighting Christina, of fighting anyone. I don\u2019t know how to throw a punch. Kiki is quiet. \u201cI don\u2019t think you get that this is serious.\u201d She whispers, as if Christina is in the room with us. \u201cYou want to get to your son, you need to do a line and hang with her. Or she can make it so you don\u2019t get to Blaine. Even if you don\u2019t start it, if you are in a fight, you can\u2019t go. She\u2019ll make sure the guards know you two fought. She\u2019s done it before. And you can\u2019t tell her I told you this. And if you tell her the reason you are not doing it is because of your son, she will make sure you don\u2019t get to Blaine. She has two kids in the system. No parental rights. They were adopted.\u201d Kiki seems legitimately scared, and now I\u2019m scared too. When Christina comes in, I avoid looking at her and just stay in my bed and turn to the wall. \u201cLove,\u201d she snarls, making my last name into something sarcastic. \u201cWhat?\u201d I turn around and see that she\u2019s standing over my bed. \u201cAre you going to party with us or what?\u201d Kiki is nodding over her shoulder. \u201cI don\u2019t do meth,\u201d I say. \u201cIt makes me too annoyed at everyone. I\u2019m not into speedy drugs.\u201d I say this like I\u2019m telling someone I don\u2019t drink boxed wine. I even sound snooty to myself. \u201cDo it or move to the freeway,\u201d she says. I look to Kiki, but she\u2019s not meeting my eye. \u201cAnd if you move to the freeway we are going to meet in the downstairs bathroom. Or you can be chill and roll with us. I only have a little left, you should be grateful I want to share with you.\u201d I am not grateful. \u201cYou don\u2019t need to waste it on me,\u201d I say. \u201cIt\u2019s not a waste, it\u2019s insurance. I don\u2019t know you or who you reppin\u2019.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m reppin\u2019 Aptos,\u201d I say, and I make an \u201cA\u201d with my hands. She doesn\u2019t think it\u2019s funny. Kiki is getting agitated. I can\u2019t get in a fight. It\u2019s a no-win situation. \u201cMaybe just a little,\u201d I say. Kiki stands watch while Christina shakes out a small line of meth on the edge of the sink. She hands me a rolled-up page of a book as a makeshift straw. I get up slowly and walk over to the sink. I look Christina in the eye, so she thinks I\u2019m unbothered. I lean over and snort the meth as gently as I can. It burns my sinuses, and my eyes water, and I can feel it hit my system instantly. I really do hate speedy drugs, and not sleeping is my least favorite thing to do in G. Now I will be up all night with nothing but regret and racing thoughts to keep me company. I hate the meth immediately. I am anxious and self-conscious and paranoid. After lights out, Christina tells a pointless hour-long story about when she was four and thought her toys were real, and I want to jab a spork in my eye. I feel stupid for being afraid of her, for pretending like I did it because it would be rude not to. Like refusing a glass of wine at a book club, or not eating the cookies at a PTA meeting. I realize I could have just rolled myself up. What do I care where I wait to go to Blaine? I lay in the dark listening to my cellmates\u2019 meth-fueled sex in the bunk above me and wishing for sleep. When they\u2019re done, Christina starts talking. \u201cHey, Love\u2026\u201d \u201cWhat?\u201d \u201cYou ever been to Blaine Street?\u201d \u201cNo.\u201d She knows I haven\u2019t\u2014she knows this is my first stint in County. \u201cWell, I hope they don\u2019t come tomorrow for you to go over.\u201d \u201cWhy?\u201d \u201cThey drug test everyone there first thing, and if you test dirty, they send you back to the main jail and you don\u2019t ever get a chance to go there again.\u201d She and Kiki start laughing. I\u2019ve been set up. Kiki was an accomplice, and her betrayal hurts. After they fall asleep, I get up and go to the sink. I put my mouth under the faucet and drink and drink as much of the rusty rancid water as I can. I don\u2019t know how long a little bit of meth stays in your system. When I can\u2019t drink any more without vomiting, I lie down. In the morning I pack up my stuff and move down to the freeway. I don\u2019t speak to Kiki again. Vivian tells me I can come to her room, but I don\u2019t want to. I am done with the upper tier. I just want out of G, desperately. An hour before lunch a guard comes in and asks who wants to go to church service. I throw on my red shirt and grab my ID card. Anything to get out of here. In the service I tune out on the Bible readings and get lost in my head. I know I can\u2019t have a life and use drugs. I know I will have to find something other than drugs to fix whatever is broken in me, but I don\u2019t know how to do that. I realize I haven\u2019t thought about DJ since we were sentenced a couple of weeks ago. I am relieved to be away from him. I will need to fix that, too, one way or another. I\u2019m so disappointed in myself for doing the meth. I gave in to Kiki and Christina\u2019s stupid plan. I put my head down on the table and cry silently. I know that the only thing I need to change is everything. The chaplain, a woman about ten years older than me, tells us that anything we ask for sincerely in prayer, if it\u2019s for the greater good, will come to us. She tells us to pray right now before we leave. I pray for my desire to use drugs to go away. Forever. I cry silently into my arms, and when everyone gets up to leave I am the last one. The chaplain stops me at the door. \u201cDid you pray for something?\u201d I nod. \u201cSomething big?\u201d I look at her, and my tears start flowing again. She opens her arms and I go into them. She hugs me, and I hug her back. She\u2019s not allowed to, but she does. This hug means everything. Back in G, I go straight to my bunk on the freeway and turn to the wall. I continue my prayer. I don\u2019t know how I feel about God, so I pray to the universe. I pray to find my path, my purpose, my goodness, my soul. I pray for the strength and power and bravery I\u2019ve given lip service to. I pray that whatever I need, I can find inside myself, because that\u2019s all I have. I pray to the better version of me. I pray to the soul behind the ego, the brokenness, the fear. I pray to whom Eckhart Tolle calls the observer. The me that is watching me. I pray to Eckhart Tolle himself. I throw in Oprah because I know those two hang out a lot together. I spend the next three hours praying and visualizing a new life. I imagine writing about my experience. I imagine standing onstage talking about my mistakes. I imagine a home of sunlight and happy faces. I imagine my boys all sitting around the dinner table. I try not to think that Dylan will graduate high school in a few months and I won\u2019t be there. That he will go off to college maybe before I even get out. I try not to think about the fact that our home is gone, my car has been repossessed, I don\u2019t even have my driver\u2019s license because I wasn\u2019t out to pay an old ticket in November. I have lost my business. I have no job to support me or my boys or this imaginary place where we sit at a dinner table with sunlight streaming through the windows. I have destroyed everything. I have no idea what I will do when I walk out of jail in September, or where I will go, or if anyone will help me. Who would possibly hire the neighbor from hell? All these thoughts swirl in my head until I refocus and go back to prayer. The only solution is to never use drugs again. Today is March 18, 2009. My new birthday. I\u2019m told to roll it up for Blaine Street a few days and many gallons of water later. I am nervous while I take the urine test, but I pass. I tell myself that this is the last drug test I\u2019ll ever have to worry about since I\u2019ll never use again. Blaine Street has its own kitchen and serves meals that are cooked in-house. Other luxuries include a sparse backyard with a dirt track around it, a badminton net, a small gym with an exercise bike and a treadmill. There is no freeway like in G, only four sets of dorm-style rooms on two levels. Each quad, as they\u2019re called, is framed around a central dayroom with couches and chairs and its own television. There is a communal bathroom for each quad with actual stalls for privacy and porcelain sinks with mirrors and two genuine bathtubs. The bunk beds have real mattresses and even a pillow. There is a desk and a radio and a lamp. In Blaine we are given large T-shirt nightgowns to sleep in, and we get to change out our other clothes twice a week rather than twice a month. Blaine is the Ritz-Carlton compared to G. Volunteers come in after dinner each night and teach us to crochet or tell us about reentry services. There is a class on relapse prevention taught by a woman named Tracy who I instantly love. She\u2019s direct and no-nonsense, and we hit it off immediately. There are even volunteers who will come in and do your hair. There\u2019s a chaplain and religious services. A computer class if you need computer training. Music. Board games. And work. Lots of work. Each day you must clean your room before 7 a.m. Beds have to be made military style. Floors are mopped daily. Bathrooms cleaned. All are subject to inspection at 7 a.m. Once a week, on Sundays, it\u2019s double scrub\u2014in-depth cleaning, closets organized, every surface, knob, and wall scrubbed to perfection. Once the daily chores are done, the girls at Blaine Street go to the main jail to clean and cook for the entire facility\u2014without them the jail would cease to function. I\u2019m assigned to clean the public lobby of the main jail and the sheriff\u2019s offices. I start work at 6 a.m. Only one deputy comes into the main office that early, and we chat it up every day. She calls her mom every morning, and after a couple of weeks she hands me the phone so I can say hello. Her mom always asks if I\u2019m doing okay and staying out of trouble, and I assure her that I am. And I\u2019ve let everyone know at Blaine Street I am not getting involved with anything shady. I know there are probably drugs waiting to be couriered under the tampon bags in the public stalls that I clean, but I don\u2019t look. If anyone asks me to check, I tell them to fuck off. During my mornings emptying trash bags and cleaning bathrooms, I think about how much Blaine Street relies on women\u2019s unpaid labor. If Blaine were empty, the jail would be in trouble. No meals. No cleaning. It\u2019s a system completely disincentivized to rehabilitate people. Their business model doesn\u2019t function without a high recidivism rate. If all the women in County were successful, exhibited good behavior, and became productive members of society, it would break the county budget. The sheriff\u2019s department couldn\u2019t afford hiring actual workers, so local taxes would get raised. People could barely afford the cost of living in Santa Cruz as it was, and proposing higher taxes rarely went well for local politicians regardless of the reason. Recidivism was the only financially viable path forward. The only way for the government to win is for the inmates to lose. It\u2019s as simple as that. There\u2019s an actual library at Blaine Street, and I read every volume. My new favorite is The Book of Awakening by Mark Nepo. It\u2019s organized in daily dated essays, and I read it like a horoscope\u2014looking for whatever wisdom I need to get through this particular day. It\u2019s uncannily accurate. One of his observations resonates especially strongly with me: Pain pushes you until vision pulls you. After lights out, I lay in my bunk bed and try to trace my life back to the moment when I stopped letting a vision for my future pull me and started letting pain push. Because I did have a clear vision at one point. And it didn\u2019t have anything to do with marriage or money or motherhood. From the time I first escaped into books, all I wanted was to be a writer. I was going to write novels that moved people, that helped them understand the world and themselves better. I wanted to make people feel, whether it was laughing or crying. And if the vision also had me rich and famous and fabulous, I was okay with that. Writing was always the only way for me to make sense of my childhood, my family, my fears, my emotions, my vast and confusing interior world. I was always a better version of me on the page. I was always at my most honest on the page. I could transcend every limitation I believed I had when I wrote. In high school I may have lived in a small apartment while my friends had big lawns but writing transcended class. Writing transcended loneliness. Writing transcended self-doubt and fear and heartbreak. I never needed a drink or a drug to write. When I took that first pill after Dylan was born, I stopped writing. I told myself it was having children, and financial troubles, and a difficult marriage that made writing impossible. I told myself there wasn\u2019t enough time in the day to write. But all the excuses were lies. Opiates made writing impossible. The drugs I took to avoid pain kept me from the one thing that helped me cope with pain. Writing was my survival strategy and a bridge to other people. It gave me a sense of self-worth. It gave me joy. But mostly it was how I let feelings flow through me. Once I stopped writing, every bit of pain stayed in my body where it settled and weighed me down so much that the only way I could move through life at all was to take a pill as needed for pain. Then two. Then ten. Then twenty. Then sixty. And every time I tried to stop, tried to choose a life without something to dull the pain, I couldn\u2019t stop for very long. I couldn\u2019t stop long enough to realize what I really needed. I needed the writing. I start writing again. I write stories on the computer and print them out because we aren\u2019t allowed to save documents. I write an essay about anger. There\u2019s a woman in Blaine with the last name Doll who suffered horrible childhood abuse and I write a story about the million ways to break a doll. I read the story to Tracy, after relapse prevention class one night, and she sits in silence when I finish. \u201cCan you please read that to me again?\u201d she asks softly. I read her the story again. And then I read her my essay about anger. \u201cThey\u2019re so great,\u201d she says. \u201cI\u2019m blown away. Can I take them to make copies?\u201d Every day that I write, I feel vision pulling me. It\u2019s not a clear vision, but there\u2019s a tug. Writing not only passes the time, it makes me feel like I am me again. The old me. The real me. The me before the mess. Tracy brings back many copies of my anger essay, and it gets passed around Blaine Street. When Jacinda, a thirty-year-old who looks like she\u2019s twelve, comes to me and asks if I can write her letter to the court asking if she can be moved from Blaine to a long-term residential treatment program, I\u2019m not sure if I know enough to argue on her behalf for treatment. We sit on a bench in Blaine\u2019s backyard, and I ask her why she wants to go to an eighteen-month treatment program rather than just do her six months at Blaine. \u201cBecause I don\u2019t want to come back here,\u201d she says. \u201cI don\u2019t want to go to treatment, but I need to go to treatment. Look, it\u2019s eighteen months of structure and regular meals and therapy and support, but I\u2019ll be safe there. You feel me?\u201d Drawing on Eckhart Tolle\u2019s advice, I stay as present as I can while Jacinda speaks. She tells me about her ex who always finds her, and her mom who died two years ago, and her sister who has been raising Jacinda\u2019s son for so long that he thinks she\u2019s his mother. I have to put my own desperation to get out of jail aside\u2014I would never trade six months for eighteen months\u2014and really listen to Jacinda. I try to see the world through her eyes, understand her backstory. It\u2019s not pretty\u2014one horrible foster home after another, running away from abuse, getting raped and kidnapped while high, getting locked up for the first time because she was crashing at a drug house that got raided. \u201cOkay,\u201d I say, after she\u2019s shared her stories for over an hour. \u201cI\u2019ll write your letter.\u201d \u201cWhat do you want?\u201d asks Jacinda. I always forget about the quid pro quo of jail friendship. I\u2019m trying to cut my carbs, so I\u2019m done trading things for bear claws. I fall silent as I ponder what else I could possibly want in this place. \u201cI\u2019ll make your bed every morning,\u201d she says. \u201cPlease\u2026\u201d I suck at making my bed. I can never get the corners as smooth and tight as the guards demand. I nod and smile in agreement. \u201cAnd,\u201d she adds, \u201cif I get released because of your letter, I\u2019ll make sure someone else makes your bed until you get out.\u201d It\u2019s a great incentive, but when I sit down to write the letter to the judge, I\u2019m not thinking about my messy bed. I\u2019m imagining that I am Jacinda and all she\u2019s been through. I\u2019m thinking about how many times I\u2019ve been in and out of jail and how badly I want the structure of the residential program. I write a long letter imploring the judge to send me to treatment, to give me a fighting chance to never come back to jail. As Jacinda I end the letter with this: \u201cI never had anyone care enough about me to tell me when to go to bed, to make sure I was eating healthy, to ask me how my day was. I want to follow the rules. In Santa Cruz Residential, they may not be my family but it will still be the closest thing I\u2019ve ever had to a real home. Please let me go home. It\u2019s all I\u2019ve ever wanted.\u201d Jacinda and I mail the letter, and for the next two weeks she makes my bed every morning before inspection. When the classification officer comes over from the main jail and asks for Jacinda, I go down to the lobby with her. He seems rushed and gives me a slightly annoyed look as I listen in on their conversation. He hands Jacinda a stack of paperwork. \u201cYou get transferred tomorrow to treatment,\u201d he says. \u201cPack it up tonight. They are coming for you at six a.m.\u201d Jacinda bursts into tears. \u201cOkay then,\u201d he says and walks away quickly. Jacinda and I look at each other, stunned. She throws her arms around me. \u201cI\u2019m so happy for you,\u201d I say. \u201cYou deserve this, you deserve a real chance.\u201d \u201cThank you,\u201d she says. \u201cI don\u2019t know how you did it, but what you wrote\u2026 it was just everything I\u2019ve ever felt and didn\u2019t know how to say.\u201d I hug her back tightly. There\u2019s a feeling I don\u2019t recognize that immediately overwhelms me and my eyes well up. I\u2019m so happy for Jacinda but it\u2019s something else. I\u2019m proud of myself. And for the first time in a very long time, I feel good. I don\u2019t see Jacinda the morning she leaves, but at 7 a.m. a quiet girl named Eve taps on my door and then walks in and makes my bed in silence. I try to ask Eve about herself, about what Jacinda traded her for, but she just smiles at me and shrugs. Whatever it is, she\u2019s not saying. She comes every single morning before seven. When she\u2019s not making my bed, Eve crochets all day, only breaking for meals. Her room is lined with hundreds of baby-sized caps and booties. The crochet volunteers collect them every month but where they take them is a mystery. I imagine a hospital or maybe the treatment center for pregnant women. After Jacinda, I have a steady job ghostwriting legal letters, love letters, birthday letters, anniversary poems, arguments in family disputes. I even write eulogies for two women who get passes to leave Blaine for funerals. I break up with a few gangsters, and I tell one poor schmuck I need a divorce because I\u2019ve fallen in love with a woman and now have a jail wife. I prepare for each assignment the same way I did with Jacinda\u2014by listening. Sometimes I worry I could get in trouble for pretending to be other people, especially since that\u2019s what put me in jail in the first place. But I\u2019m helping rather than hustling now, so I don\u2019t worry too much about the fallout. I love pretending to be someone who isn\u2019t me. All my years writing fiction help me to be a different character. When I talk to my clients at Blaine I listen for their particular quirks of language and phrasing, the way they tell a story. There are only a few judges in criminal court in Santa Cruz so I\u2019m extra careful to vary the voice in each letter and match the voice to their individual backgrounds, education, and culture. The more letters I write, the easier it becomes to become another person. To think like they think. Reason like they reason. Occasionally I write how someone feels and they freak out because they didn\u2019t tell me that they grew up never trusting other women, or that because they were abandoned by their father they always chose bad men just like him, but it\u2019s true for them. It\u2019s kind of spooky, and the girls whisper that I must be psychic. I don\u2019t discourage their suspicion because it\u2019s fun, it passes the time, and saves me from having to make my own bed. When I occasionally make a prediction about something entirely predictable that comes true, I gaze intently into people\u2019s eyes as I deny that I\u2019m psychic. And I don\u2019t explain that the reason I can write so accurately about their fears, their shame, their desperation to be loved, to be better mothers than they had, or their struggles to stay clean, is because in all these ways we are exactly the same. I don\u2019t yet realize that what I am doing is honing my empathy\u2014the superpower of all great ghostwriters. \n chapter 13 MOTHER\u2019S DAY I get moved to kitchen duty at Blaine Street, and I get permission to grow a garden in the backyard. Each morning and night I work the soil, plant the seeds, tend to the vegetables that I will eventually cook and serve to my fellow inmates. I have never been a gardener, someone who loved to get her hands in the soil. But it\u2019s different gardening in jail. Planting seeds feels hopeful and even the slow pace of vegetables growing feels exciting because there is something new being tended to and born. Soon after I plant the garden, Amy, Kaden\u2019s CPS social worker, begins making plans to bring him for his first visit. I have called her every day since I got to Blaine. I am determined to do what I can from inside to get my boy back. Every week I ask her what I can do to move my case along. Rather than seeing her as a bureaucrat who wants to take Kaden away from me, I choose to treat her as my ally in getting him back. I choose to believe that the goal of everyone in CPS court is to return Kaden to me rather than take him away permanently. I try to manifest this into being, and I tell myself that the judge, the attorneys, the social workers are all working with me toward this goal. \u201cWhat more can we do?\u201d I ask them. \u201cWhat more can I do?\u201d I ask myself. This question becomes my mantra and consumes every waking hour. I slowly become an advocate for myself and for the other women going through similar CPS cases. One of the requirements to reunify within the allotted year is a positive-discipline parenting class. After I\u2019m released, there will be no way I can complete this class within the one-year time frame. I lobby hard on behalf of all of us at Blaine and get an amazing woman, a former mayor of Santa Cruz, to come to Blaine Street and teach the class. Amy agrees to bring Kaden to a court-supervised visit once a week, but only if all the other girls in Blaine Street agree to stay in their rooms during the visit. It\u2019s the only way CPS will allow the visits to count toward our reunification. All the girls agree to stay locked in their rooms. I don\u2019t know if it\u2019s because of the letters I have written for them, or because so many of them have already lost children to the system, and they empathize with me. These women\u2014mothers, sisters, friends\u2014are rooting for Kaden. He is brought in for his first visit. We read books and play badminton. He sits on my lap, and I cuddle him and promise him I will be home soon, that we will be together. I walk him along the side yard so the girls can see his joy, which their sacrifice has made possible. He smiles and waves to them all and blows them sweet four-year-old kisses. I think it gives them hope. Because my new job in Blaine Street is running the kitchen, I can make him a snack like it\u2019s our own kitchen. I make him hard-boiled eggs, which he loves to peel. I squirrel away boxes of Froot Loops so I can pour him a bowl of sweet cereal when he asks for it every week. I still worry that he hasn\u2019t grown an inch since my arrest, so I feed him as much as I can. We work in the garden and talk about how each plant grows bigger just like him. I will him to grow. Each week he tries to leave something with me, a piece of clothing, a toy, his shoes. \u201cI want to live here with you,\u201d he begs. \u201cPlease, Mommy.\u201d \u201cI love you, Boo Boo,\u201d I tell him. \u201cI wish you could live here, but it\u2019s not allowed, plus your brothers would miss you.\u201d He clings to my neck when it\u2019s time to go, and I murmur \u201csoon\u201d as I rain kisses across his face until he laughs. I do my best not to show him my breaking heart. After he leaves, I grieve the loss all over again. When he cries to stay with me, I tell him Darcy and Bryan love him and are taking care of him for me. I want him to be happy wherever he is\u2014and I do not say a negative word about Darcy, although he repeats cruel things she has said about me. I will never make him feel like his loyalty is divided or feel guilty for his happy moments away from me. I know I am his mom, and there is no ticking clock, or law, or judge, or social worker who can change that. DJ hasn\u2019t yet made it to Rountree\u2014the medium-security facility for men on the other side of the county. He has had no jailhouse epiphany like mine. If anything, jail is making him worse; he\u2019s affiliating with gang members and doing drugs, and the jail stops allowing letters between us because he\u2019s doodling gang symbols in them. When I ask the social worker what happens if both parents aren\u2019t doing what they\u2019re supposed to, she tells me the judge has the power to view each parent\u2019s requirements separately and give custody back to one parent and not the other. \u201cOf course,\u201d she adds, \u201cif you are living with the other parent and he is using drugs or hasn\u2019t fulfilled his requirements, it would appear like you are not putting the well-being of the child first. Sometimes safety means there is only one parent in the picture.\u201d I nod. Pain pushes and vision pulls. I\u2019m done with pain. Officer Lonnie is the main deputy who works the day shift at Blaine Street. I am amazed that everyone calls her by her first name until I realize Lonnie is actually her last name. She is there from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. most days. Lonnie is about my age, with big brown eyes that can stare at you for an uncomfortable amount of time without blinking. She likes to think she doesn\u2019t miss anything that happens at Blaine, but she does. She wears her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun. The guards don\u2019t ever give out personal information, but from what I can gather, she is second generation from somewhere in Southeast Asia. When I get up at 5 a.m. to start cooking for the thirty residents of Blaine she offers me coffee. Real coffee. Guard coffee. She finds the fact that I\u2019ve never tried pho more offensive than my felonies. She tells me how her various relatives make pho, what they each put in it, the five main spices, and how the pho at the diner nearby compares. She also shares the latest Hollywood gossip with me in hopes I will share the latest Blaine Street gossip with her. One day I ask Lonnie if I can make banana bread as a treat for the women of Blaine. I hand her a list of ingredients I will need. As a working mom, I never had time to bake and garden like I do at Blaine. I always thought of baking and gardening as luxuries of the idle or unambitious, but I was wrong. There is something about growing things and feeding people that makes my soul feel good again. I wish I had gardened and baked more when I had a home of my own. \u201cWhat do you have to offer?\u201d asks Lonnie. It\u2019s not as creepy a question as it sounds. Lonnie is trying to move up in the corrections department, and the more contraband she can confiscate from inmates the better it is for her career. Confiscating involves a lot of work for her and a lot of stress for the residents of Blaine, so Lonnie and I have worked out a system: I collect contraband for her so that nobody gets in trouble and in exchange she brings in treats. It\u2019s a win-win, no-fuss-no-muss system for everyone. \u201cWhat do you want?\u201d I counter. \u201cTwo lighters,\u201d she says. Lighters are a coup in the guard confiscation world, since they are needed to smoke cigarettes or drugs, and they can also start fires. I come back with an offer of one lighter, and the deal is done. There are lots of lighters at Blaine, so it\u2019s easy to get a volunteer to give one up for the possibility of banana bread. When I ask for two DVDs and cake mix and frosting, we have a harder negotiation. She wants three lighters and a pack of cigarettes. We settle on two lighters and five cigarettes in exchange for a full movie night experience for Blaine Street where we can stay up until midnight. We are drinking our morning coffee when I finally get up the nerve to ask her about going to the Gemma Program\u2014an eight-week reentry program where about ten Blaine Street residents get to leave in street clothes two days a week and take classes at a local church in relapse prevention, nutritious cooking, music, yoga, r\u00e9sum\u00e9 writing, and life skills like how to balance a checkbook. \u201cI\u2019d like to do it,\u201d I say. \u201cYou don\u2019t really need it,\u201d says Lonnie. \u201cPlease!\u201d I beg. \u201cIt\u2019s not up to me. You have to meet with Cassandra, she\u2019s the program director. She\u2019s coming to do interviews tomorrow for the new session. I just refer people to her that I think can be trusted and who will benefit from it, but it\u2019s her decision.\u201d \u201cWill you refer me?\u201d She says nothing, just smirks at me between sips of her coffee. \u201cWhat?\u201d I ask. \u201cYou don\u2019t think I can be trusted?\u201d I ask this lightly, but my voice shakes a little. It hurts. I want people to trust me again. Lonnie sets her coffee down and laughs. \u201cI already referred you.\u201d Lonnie doesn\u2019t show much emotion, nor is she moved by others\u2019 emotions. But she does have compassion, and I\u2019m grateful to her. Cassandra pulls me out to the lobby to interview me. She\u2019s a large Black woman who exudes joy from her purple-glitter eye shadow to her flower nose ring to her colorful flowing scarves. I\u2019m afraid she\u2019s seen the newspaper headline and read the online comments. I read them constantly, trying to figure out the identity of each username. I know which comment is from Darcy. I know which are from people in recovery. I know which name is an old boss. But the bulk of the comments seem to be from strangers\u2014people who read the article and have a lot to say about who I am and what I\u2019ve done. It\u2019s almost like reading your horoscope every day and trying to see yourself in the description\u2014if your horoscope threatened you and called you a sociopath. Reading them is like poking at a wound that\u2019s trying to heal. They are the opposite of positive affirmations, but I can\u2019t seem to stop. Cassandra and I chat for twenty minutes as she tells me about the program, the classes. She asks me why I want to attend and I don\u2019t bullshit her. \u201cI really want to leave here twice a week,\u201d I say. \u201cI\u2019m not going to lie about that. But I also love school, learning, and homework. I want something to focus on besides cooking and cleaning and waiting for visits from my boys.\u201d \u201cI think you\u2019ll make a great addition to the Gemma Program,\u201d Cassandra tells me. She has the kindest smile I have ever seen, and she beams it at me as if I am worthy of such kindness. \u201cBut\u2026\u201d I stammer, \u201cI just want you to know\u2026\u201d She looks at me expectantly, still smiling. I don\u2019t know how to say what I want to say. I feel inarticulate and like I need to make sure she knows what she\u2019s getting into so that she doesn\u2019t regret offering me a place. \u201cThere was this headline,\u201d I begin. \u201cI have thirty-two felonies, and I just want to make sure you know\u2026 that I\u2019m really, I mean everyone thinks I\u2019m really\u2026\u201d I finally blurt it out. \u201cI\u2019m a bad person!\u201d Cassandra tilts her head and stares me straight in the eye. The kindness and warmth don\u2019t leave her face. What I say doesn\u2019t seem to shock her, but she doesn\u2019t speak for a good thirty seconds. \u201cMy son was in the paper once. I\u2019ll tell you about it someday, but meanwhile I\u2019ll be here at seven a.m. on Tuesday to pick you up,\u201d she finally says. I nod and thank her. As I stand up, she hugs me. Lonnie, watching from the guard station, doesn\u2019t stop her. Lara the mom gets hugged and cuddled by Kaden every week. But Lara, the neighbor from hell, has never been hugged like this. I fold into her and rest my head on her broad shoulder. Her perfume is sweet. I want to stay here forever. She murmurs \u201cIt\u2019s going to be okay\u2026\u201d over and over, and we stay like that for a few minutes. In Cassandra\u2019s arms, I feel like I am good. The Gemma classes are taught by local volunteers, and the church gives access to the meeting room and the kitchen for free. A few weeks into the session I find out some girls have been stealing money from the collection box at the church. I put a stop to it right away, making them return what they stole and confess to Cassandra. When they protest, I remind them that I control the Blaine Street kitchen, which also means I control the cheese. In relapse prevention someone said that there\u2019s a chemical in cheese that\u2019s identical to one in heroin. I don\u2019t know if that\u2019s true, but I do know that in Blaine whoever controls the cheese controls the women. Halfway through the program, Alice, a volunteer, gives us homework where we have to list all the pros and cons of restorative justice versus punitive justice. Back at Blaine, we all gather in the computer room and talk about what it would be like to sit in a circle with the people we have harmed and hear their experience of our crimes. Some girls say they\u2019d prefer a judge to facing their victims, and I think about sitting with my neighbors and trying to explain why I stole their checkbook and wrote a check at the grocery store. Or why I used their social security number to get credit to buy a Kindle. I don\u2019t know if I could explain it in a way that wouldn\u2019t sound like I wasn\u2019t taking responsibility. \u201cI was out of my mind\u201d doesn\u2019t cut it. \u201cI just wanted to read parenting e-books\u201d makes me sound inane. I didn\u2019t want to hurt them. But my life for the last year was like driving at night in heavy fog; I could only focus on a foot in front of me. I had no peripheral vision for anyone or anything else. I definitely couldn\u2019t see my neighbors. I can\u2019t imagine one person who was in the courtroom when I was sentenced choosing forgiveness over punishment. I don\u2019t think I could make that choice if someone hurt my family, violated my sense of safety and security. Restorative justice was great in theory but we Gemma girls couldn\u2019t imagine forgiving ourselves, much less asking others to forgive us. I am the fastest typist in Blaine, so I help all the girls type up their homework and print it for class. At the next class, Alice and I are sitting across from each other, at two ends of a large conference table. The rest of the girls are on either side. \u201cDid anyone have any problems with typing it up?\u201d she asks. \u201cIt\u2019s okay if you had to handwrite it.\u201d \u201cI helped everyone type it on the computer,\u201d I say brightly. The weeks are flying by now, and I\u2019m in great spirits. Tracy, the relapse prevention teacher, had challenged me to stop reading the newspaper comments about me so I have, and it\u2019s lifted my mood considerably. I smile at Alice, but she doesn\u2019t smile back. She says sharply, \u201cI\u2019m not comfortable with you being on any kind of computer at all.\u201d My stomach flips, and I study Alice more closely to see if I know her from anywhere outside Gemma, Little League or Montessori maybe, but she just glares at me with open disdain. Nobody says anything. One of the rules of Gemma is that you never talk about anyone\u2019s crimes. The volunteers are there to help and support us because they believe in reentry and rehabilitation. Like our homework assignment, Gemma itself is based on restorative justice, not punitive. I can\u2019t respond, and my cheeks burn. I keep my eyes on the table for the rest of the class. When the day is over, and we are putting chairs away in the supply closet, I step inside and start to cry. I feel defeated. Ashamed. I silently berate myself for my optimism. If a Gemma volunteer has such vitriol toward me, then I have no chance out in the world. Cassandra pushes her way into the closet. She\u2019s livid. \u201cShe had no right to say that to you,\u201d she says angrily. \u201cI\u2019m going to talk to her.\u201d \u201cI can\u2019t come back,\u201d I say. \u201cWhat\u2019s the point? I\u2019m done.\u201d I have no anger in me like Cassandra does, but then anger has always come out as sadness for me. \u201cYou will be back. You\u2019ll be back on Thursday, and you\u2019ll be back every week after until you graduate. I promise you, nothing like that will happen again.\u201d I shrug and tell Cassandra I\u2019ll think about it. When I walk into Blaine, Lonnie takes one look at me and says, \u201cWho died?\u201d I tell her what happened. \u201cSo your feelings got hurt,\u201d she says. \u201cDo you like Gemma?\u201d \u201cYeah\u2026 but\u2026\u201d \u201cThen get over it. Show up and hold your head up.\u201d \u201cBut\u2026\u201d \u201cOr no more getting out of double-scrub by having your minions do your job.\u201d This makes me laugh. Lonnie always knows more than I give her credit for. \u201cHow about some ice cream for the girls? Ice cream always cheers me up. I like vanilla.\u201d \u201cFigures you like vanilla. No deal. You don\u2019t get rewarded for pouting, so suck it up, Love. And finish what you started.\u201d Lonnie\u2019s right. I want to finish Gemma, so I will. Later that night Lonnie calls me to her window and hands me the office phone. It\u2019s Cassandra. \u201cI spoke to her. Apparently she\u2019s friends with your next-door neighbor.\u201d \u201cOh, great\u2026\u201d \u201cIt won\u2019t happen again,\u201d says Cassandra. \u201cNot on my watch. And you don\u2019t have to do her class anymore. And she won\u2019t be coming back next session.\u201d \u201cThanks,\u201d I say. \u201cI guess I\u2019ll see you Thursday.\u201d \u201cYou bet your ass you will.\u201d On Mother\u2019s Day, Bryan brings Dylan, Cody, and Ty to visit. It\u2019s always awkward to see Bryan, and even more awkward when he keeps telling me how good I look. \u201cI mean, you look so healthy,\u201d he adds. It\u2019s true. I exercise every day, I meditate, I go to bed early, I have lots of friends. But mostly I feel hopeful. At first it felt like I would be in jail forever, but now I see an advertisement for a movie coming out in October and I think, I will be out of jail when that movie premieres. The boys and I sit in Blaine\u2019s backyard and talk. I tell them stories about the other girls, silly fights people get in, how we trade lighters for cake mix, and I give them the beanies I have crocheted for them. \u201cI got into Cal Poly,\u201d says Dylan. I scream and hug him. My firstborn is headed for college. \u201cI\u2019m so proud of you,\u201d I say. \u201cWhen does school start?\u201d \u201cThe end of September.\u201d I will be out, I think. I will be out of jail to see him off to college. Cody talks about basketball and his new girlfriend. Ty talks about his friends in junior high and the academic awards he\u2019s winning even though he skips classes whenever he can. \u201cI believe in cutting out the middleman,\u201d he says. I look at him, puzzled. \u201cThe teacher.\u201d He laughs. \u201cI don\u2019t need the teacher to learn or to do well on the tests.\u201d The old me would have freaked out on him, told him he can\u2019t skip school and that teachers are important. The new me just listens and understands. Because it\u2019s Mother\u2019s Day there\u2019s no time limit on the visits, and the boys and Bryan stay all day. We play badminton and check out the garden, but mostly we just sit and talk and laugh. \u201cI\u2019ve been writing,\u201d I say. \u201cI\u2019ve missed it so much. I don\u2019t know why I stopped writing.\u201d \u201cDon\u2019t stop, Mom,\u201d they say. \u201cYou should do what you love.\u201d Sitting in the shade under a tree outside the jail with my boys should feel weird and painful and awkward. But there\u2019s so much love between us under that tree that I realize I didn\u2019t need all those trappings to prove I was a loving mom. I didn\u2019t need a big house and a big car and private school and fancy vacations. None of that mattered or matters. I realize in this moment that I am a better mom in jail than I have ever been outside jail. Our conversations feel more real, more raw, more honest. We\u2019re not fitting into any preconceived roles\u2014we can\u2019t. I used to think the most important thing was that my boys get into Stanford, or some big Ivy League college like Harvard, but now I realize it\u2019s not that important. Dylan is happy to be going to Cal Poly, so I\u2019m happy. If he\u2019d told me he decided not to go to college, I would have still been happy. Bryan and I aren\u2019t fighting, and every time one of the boys says something funny our eyes meet in shared understanding: We did this. As flawed and fucked-up as we were, we created these beautiful humans. The Love boys have always had each other, but now, thanks to my arrest, they have their mom back. I\u2019m not keeping secrets. I\u2019m not pretending. I\u2019m just here in my green and purple loving on them. I never thought I would be overwhelmed with gratitude spending Mother\u2019s Day in jail, but I am. Thank you. I am alive. Thank you. I am their mother. Thank you, thank you, thank you. A few weeks later, we have a Gemma graduation at a hotel near the courthouse. We are given graduation gowns. We are each expected to give a speech. Friends and family, judges and attorneys and city officials, and even some guards attend the ceremony. I invite my sons, but only Dylan and Cody can make it. For many of the girls, this will be the only graduation they\u2019ll ever have. I have graduated high school and college and graduate school, but I feel most proud of this commencement. It feels like a celebration. When we come out to begin the ceremony, we all dance out one by one to \u201cSuperwoman\u201d by Alicia Keys. It should have been embarrassing for all of us, in our maroon caps and gowns, swaying and dancing and celebrating because we graduated from a basic life skills program. The audience of judges and guards is slightly uncomfortable, and my boys are mortified, but our dancing is an act of rebellion. Who are we to celebrate? Who are we to laugh and smile? Who are we to wear our caps and gowns proudly and share our speeches with confidence? Who are we to identify as Superwomen? We are women full of possibility and hope. In my speech, I talk about the experience of time in jail. I talk about how I used to treat time as a limitless resource, and not the precious and rare commodity it actually is. I try to convey how often the past is present when you have only your own mind for company, and how the future is unknown. I talk about the obstacles we all will face when we are released. I talk about pain pushing and vision pulling. I talk about missing Dylan\u2019s high school graduation the week earlier but how he is here to see me graduate, and I ask the audience to cheer for him. And then I promise my boys, the guards, the judge on my case who is watching, that I will never miss another graduation of any of my children. My old boyfriend, the district attorney, is at the graduation. Cassandra is flabbergasted because he has never attended one of these ceremonies before. I see him watching me dance, staring at me intently while I give my speech. He gets up to leave when the reception is about to begin, and I track his movements to the door. He turns around at the doorway and our eyes meet. He smiles. I smile. In this small moment we are friends again. We are on the same side. It\u2019s a long summer without Gemma to break up the monotony, but I work in the garden, and Lonnie lets me do landscaping in the evenings in front of Blaine Street. I am always working during shift change at 7 p.m., so the main jail guards all see me out front with no locked doors between me and the outside world. Some have started to wave to me every evening, others just frown and look concerned. I love these evenings of freedom\u2014pruning rosebushes, pulling weeds. Plants never judge you. Some nights, I almost think I can hear the summer sounds of people laughing at the nearby beach. I think of all the times I took my boys there\u2014riding the baby rides on the boardwalk until they were big enough to go on the Giant Dipper roller coaster. Kaden would still be on the baby rides, and I imagine us eating cotton candy and playing carnival games together. On nights when the summer fog rolls in, it makes me moody and nostalgic for everything I have lost. I don\u2019t want to cook dinner for thirty women; I want to cook dinner for my family. I don\u2019t want to mop jail floors; I want to mop a floor in my own house. I don\u2019t want to prune the jail\u2019s rosebushes; I want to plant my own garden in my own backyard. Each night I go to sleep thinking I am one day closer to all these things. And each morning I wake up not knowing how the hell I\u2019m going to make any of that happen. At the end of June Michael Jackson dies. Lonnie and I discuss his demise over coffee. It\u2019s got to be opiates, I tell her. I\u2019m pretty sure he was an opiate addict. Lonnie disagrees, and we fall into a heated debate. In July, reports emerge about his history of abusing pain medication. Even though she runs a jail filled with women who suffer from substance abuse disorders, Lonnie still doesn\u2019t understand how someone who has everything can throw it all away. Such behavior doesn\u2019t fit her no-nonsense, deal-with-it mentality, so I try to explain how the drugs just take over. How they make nothing else matter. \u201cBut you know what you\u2019re doing,\u201d she says. \u201cYou still know right from wrong.\u201d \u201cOf course,\u201d I say. \u201cThen if you know you are doing the wrong things,\u201d she says, giving me a pointed look, \u201cthen you should know enough to stop.\u201d \u201cIt just doesn\u2019t work that way,\u201d I say. \u201cWell then you ask for help\u2026\u201d I think about all the times I could have asked for help and didn\u2019t. In my mind, there was no way I could ever be away from my children for the thirty days it took to go to rehab. It feels ironic now that I\u2019ve been away from them for nine months. \u201cThere\u2019s so much stigma and shame,\u201d I say. \u201cFor me, it would have meant admitting that I didn\u2019t have my shit together. I was afraid of being judged. Seems like a small price to pay now. I was super invested in pretending like everything was fine, and I was the perfect mom. Perfect moms don\u2019t go to rehab.\u201d \u201cSo how\u2019d that work out for you?\u201d Lonnie asks. \u201cAnd you still knew right from wrong when you were out there committing all those felonies.\u201d I think about it for a minute. \u201cIt wasn\u2019t that I forgot right from wrong,\u201d I say. \u201cDrugs don\u2019t do that, at least not for me. But they did make me forget who I was, if that makes sense. I didn\u2019t forget the law, I forgot myself.\u201d \u201cWhat does that mean?\u201d \u201cIt means I forgot that I\u2019m someone who would give you everything I have before I\u2019d ever steal from you. It means I forgot that I\u2019m someone who\u2019s happy and fun and likes people. I forgot that I\u2019m creative and loving and careful and thoughtful and generous.\u201d \u201cYou didn\u2019t seem to forget that you\u2019re full of yourself.\u201d Lonnie laughs. \u201cBut I did,\u201d I say. \u201cI completely forgot to be full of myself. But mostly I forgot I\u2019m someone who wants to live.\u201d Lonnie clears her throat. \u201cAre you going to cry?\u201d I ask. Lonnie scoffs. \u201cYou wish.\u201d In August, the jail announces plans for an early-release program to help with overcrowding. They are going to release some inmates ahead of their official out date, but you have to come back to the jail every day from eight to four and work. There\u2019s lots of excitement about this program, but it only reminds me yet again how much the county depends on women\u2019s unpaid labor. Soon after this plan is floated, Lonnie calls me over the loudspeaker on a Friday before shift change. \u201cWhat\u2019s up?\u201d I say. \u201cI was just looking up your husband\u2019s record on the computer. He was caught with street clothes under his mattress.\u201d \u201cWhat?\u201d DJ and I haven\u2019t been able to write each other in months, and since we\u2019re done with court dates, I never see him. Or think about him. I declared my love for him in my letters, but I didn\u2019t really feel anything for him anymore. I didn\u2019t hate him; I didn\u2019t love him. And I didn\u2019t know what to do about it. Lonnie reads through the reports on DJ. \u201cWow, he\u2019s had a lot of trouble in jail. I shouldn\u2019t be sharing this with you, but I want you to know\u2014you guys seem like you\u2019re on different trajectories.\u201d I don\u2019t know what to say to this, so I just shrug. I don\u2019t know if this is Lonnie my friend advising me about my future, or Lonnie my jailer scouting for information. \u201cYou should get rid of this guy, that\u2019s all I\u2019m saying.\u201d \u201cWell, it\u2019s not like we\u2019re dating right now.\u201d I laugh, but Lonnie is stone-faced. \u201cYou qualify for early release with the new program. You are out on Monday morning.\u201d I am surprised. I thought I had another three weeks. I have no idea where I\u2019m going to live or how I\u2019m going to get to the jail to work each day. The jail doesn\u2019t care about these challenges, and for now neither do I. With freedom so close, it\u2019s hard to think about how hard homelessness will be. \u201cI\u2019m not working this weekend, so this is goodbye,\u201d she says. Lonnie and I look at each other. I can\u2019t tell her that I\u2019ll miss her because that\u2019s just awkward given our circumstances. But I appreciate her, and I will miss her friendship. \u201cI don\u2019t want to see you again,\u201d she says. \u201cI promise I will never be back here. I will never go to jail again. No offense.\u201d \u201cDo you know how many times I\u2019ve been told that, and then two months later I see the person right back here again?\u201d \u201cA million times?\u201d \u201cProbably more. I think you might have a chance\u2014but you need to get rid of the guy. Everyone here thinks so. And if you come back, I will not let you have your own room. I will bunk you up with the most obnoxious person in here.\u201d \u201cDeal,\u201d I reply. \u201cBut what do you mean by \u2018everyone\u2019 thinks so?\u201d Lonnie laughs. \u201cYou don\u2019t think the guards talk as much about you guys as you do about us?\u201d When shift change happens, I am outside tending to the roses. Lonnie drives past and yells out her window, \u201cTry some pho!\u201d I give her a little wave and go back to deadheading the rosebushes so that the tender new buds have room to grow. I don\u2019t tell anyone I\u2019m leaving on Monday. The few days before someone\u2019s out date are always precarious. Sometimes girls sabotage themselves and get into trouble that requires them to stay, and other times another inmate sabotages them. Like any place where thirty women are living on top of each other, each dealing with their own trauma, their own sobriety, their own regret\u2014it can be all kumbaya and girl power until it isn\u2019t. I have nightmares all weekend before my release\u2014where I\u2019m running because I\u2019m being chased, or I\u2019m trying to save my children and I can\u2019t. I know that I\u2019m walking out of Blaine a different person than I was when I walked in\u2014but I don\u2019t know exactly who I am now. I have been so many different versions of myself that I don\u2019t know which is real. All of them? None of them? On Sunday night, right before lights out, I tell everyone I am leaving in the morning, and we have a spontaneous dance party in our quad. Janelle and Mandi help me fold the blanket I have made in crochet class over the last few months. I want to give it to Dylan to take to Cal Poly when he leaves in September. I\u2019ve missed almost his whole senior year of high school. His football games and SATs and prom and graduation. I have missed my oldest son\u2019s most important year of school, and the guilt is all-consuming. In my fantasy life I imagine being back in a home with all my boys, but I realize that because Dylan is going off to college he will probably never live with me again. This realization that some things are just lost to me forever is like jumping into icy waters. It takes my breath away. I shake off the cold reality and focus on my last night with my Blaine Street family. The blanket that I have been blindly crocheting during my months at Blaine has grown to be at least twenty feet long and ten feet wide, and the folding party devolves into dark hilarity. \u201cAt least you\u2019ll have something to keep you warm when you\u2019re homeless.\u201d \u201cYou could cut it up and have an entire crocheted wardrobe.\u201d \u201cYou can hide under it when Probation comes knocking.\u201d At one point, all thirty of us try to fit under the blanket like it\u2019s a fort. It\u2019s all fun and games until Janelle pees her pants from laughing so hard. I go to bed that night smiling, hopeful, sure that the hard part is out of the way. I have done my time. On August 17, 2009, I walk out of Blaine Street forever. When I leave Blaine, I must go immediately to the probation department to let them know my address and get the terms of my release. I have no address, only a prepaid room in a seedy motel called the Hitching Post not far from the jail, where I will spend the next few weeks. An uncle I haven\u2019t seen or heard from in years has offered to pay for this, my mom tells me. I am grateful, but also hurt that no relative of mine ever wrote or visited me in jail. I know that part of my sentence is attending drug court once I\u2019m released, but I don\u2019t know when or how this starts. Drug court is usually an alternative to jail that involves night classes twice a week, random drug testing, immediate incarceration for a weekend if there\u2019s a failed drug test, and the promise of a clean record upon completion of the program. Drug testing is also part of probation, and part of the CPS reunification requirements. Every day I must call three different numbers and see if any of them requires me to get a drug test. I will have three hours to get the test from the time I am alerted. Meeting all the CPS requirements is a condition of my criminal case plea deal; meeting my drug court requirements is a condition of the CPS case; and doing whatever Probation wants trumps all. The various parts of the system are precariously stacked like a Jenga tower. Make one wrong move and it all comes toppling down. I will walk out of Blaine with no car, no phone, no friends, and no idea how to navigate the confusing and conflicting requirements of three different parts of the same system. It feels like a setup because failure at anything means I\u2019m back in jail on a probation violation. The early-release program also means I report to the jail every morning at eight to do yardwork and landscaping. When I leave Blaine, my mom is waiting outside and takes me to breakfast. She has made the hour-and-a-half drive from her home in San Francisco, and I hope that she will stay longer, but after breakfast she drops me off at the probation department and leaves. I give the woman at the front desk my name, and she looks at me blankly. \u201cI just got out of jail,\u201d I say. \u201cThey told me to come here and report in or get oriented or something. I have to do it within seventy-two hours, but I\u2019m here today.\u201d The woman has me wait in the lobby for over two hours and then finally the probation officer on duty comes out. \u201cYou\u2019re here too soon,\u201d he says. \u201cWe don\u2019t have any paperwork from the jail yet. Come back in a few days.\u201d \u201cBut I\u2019m on the new work-release program and I have to be at the jail working from eight to four starting tomorrow. You guys aren\u2019t open before eight or after four.\u201d \u201cWhat\u2019s your name again?\u201d I tell him and then he has me follow him back to his desk. He gets on his computer. \u201cYou just got out?\u201d \u201cA few hours ago,\u201d I say. \u201cYeah, we\u2019ve already had a call about a probation violation. You need to appear in criminal court, Department Three, at eight tomorrow morning. And drug court is at three on Fridays.\u201d \u201cWhat did I do? What probation violation?\u201d I am shocked. \u201cI\u2019m not your probation officer, you\u2019ll get assigned one once we get your paperwork. But you need to be in court tomorrow morning.\u201d \u201cI have to be working at the jail at eight,\u201d I say. \u201cI just got out. I haven\u2019t done anything wrong.\u201d He just shrugs. \u201cHow,\u201d I ask him, \u201cam I supposed to be in both places at once? What do I do? And drug court is at three but I\u2019m supposed to do work release until four.\u201d \u201cNot our problem,\u201d he says. \u201cBut if you don\u2019t show up in court that\u2019s another probation violation.\u201d I walk outside and sit on the front steps of the building. My body starts to shake, and I\u2019m hyperventilating. The busy street in front of me narrows in my vision like I\u2019m looking at it through a telescope. I watch the people passing by in their cars\u2014running errands, going to work, getting lunch, driving their kids to and from activities. I bury my face in my hands and cry. I imagine throwing myself into the street, not to die, just to get injured, so a hospital will take me in, and nurses will take care of me. I think about all the girls in the main jail who were released one day and then booked back in the next day for stealing, or fighting, or trespassing, or public drunkenness. One mother and daughter who were in G and then Blaine at the same time used to joke that it was the best home they ever had together. Only they weren\u2019t joking. I always questioned how they could be so stupid to land back in jail so soon, and now I know. Alone on the outside makes together on the inside feel safer. I sit there for an hour, and then I wipe my eyes and make a plan. First, back to the jail to tell them I have to be in court in the morning, then I will walk to my public defender\u2019s office. I don\u2019t know if she\u2019s done with her maternity leave or even still my attorney now that I\u2019m out, but she\u2019s the only one who might take my side and tell me what I should do. DJ won\u2019t be released for a few weeks at least, and I know that if I can survive until then, my mother-in-law will help us find somewhere to live. Maybe lend us a car. I just have to take the first step. And then another. And then another. My attorney isn\u2019t in, but the receptionist tells me that Elizabeth will meet me at court in the morning and to get there fifteen minutes early so we can talk. \u201cDo you know what it\u2019s about?\u201d I ask. \u201cDo you know who called?\u201d \u201cI have no idea, sorry.\u201d That night I triple-lock myself into my room at the Hitching Post. Every surface is both greasy and dusty. No double-scrub here, I think. I only have the forty dollars that my mom put on my books so the jail would give me some cash when I was released, and I don\u2019t know how long that has to last. I don\u2019t have clothes for court. I don\u2019t know what I could already be in trouble for. How can I violate probation before I\u2019m even signed up for it? I consciously try to stay awake because I don\u2019t want to have nightmares in this strange place. Twenty-four hours ago, I was laughing and hopeful. Now I feel like prey. \n chapter 14 ALL BUSES LEAD TO THE SAME PLACE Elizabeth meets me at 8 a.m. in front of the courthouse. She is noticeably not pregnant, but we don\u2019t have time to chat about newborns, sleep schedules, breastfeeding, or any of the other experiences I would normally discuss with a new mother. \u201cSomeone called Probation a half hour after you were released,\u201d she says, \u201cand said you violated CPS terms.\u201d \u201cWhat did I do?\u201d I ask in panic. \u201cI was at the jail, went to breakfast, then Probation, then back to the jail, then went to your office.\u201d \u201cThe caller said you were seen driving by Kaden\u2019s daycare. The caller knew that following CPS requirements is a part of your probation.\u201d \u201cI don\u2019t even have a car.\u201d Obviously, the person didn\u2019t know that. \u201cI haven\u2019t even talked to anyone. I don\u2019t have a phone or a car or a way to reach my boys to tell them I\u2019m out. I wouldn\u2019t do that.\u201d I\u2019m begging her, but I\u2019m not sure what I\u2019m begging her for. To believe me? To fight for me? My voice sounds high-pitched and shaky in my own ears. If I didn\u2019t know me better, I would think I was lying. \u201cWho would make up something like that? Why would someone do that?\u201d Elizabeth pats my shoulder. \u201cLook, anyone can make up anything and tell it to Probation. It happens all the time. People want revenge, or they just want to cause trouble for people when they get out of jail. They file false CPS reports. They file false probation violation reports. They make accusations.\u201d My mind jumps through all the possibilities. I don\u2019t want to think Darcy would stoop so low, but while I\u2019ll never know, she\u2019s my most likely candidate. I want to scream. I want to cry. I don\u2019t want to go back to jail. \u201cI would be on camera outside the jail,\u201d I say frantically. \u201cDo they have cameras at Probation? I can prove I didn\u2019t go anywhere else but the main jail, breakfast, Probation, back to the main jail, and then to your office. I was in the lobby at the jail. I talked to the deputy on duty at the window. I can prove it! There will be a receipt from breakfast!\u201d I\u2019m angry, but my anger comes out as tears. \u201cIt\u2019s okay,\u201d she says. \u201cI\u2019m going to go talk to the judge. I know you didn\u2019t drive by daycare. Sit in the courtroom and wait for me to call you up.\u201d I follow her inside and sit near the door. A part of me wants to run. I\u2019m going to be one of those girls who go back to jail the next day. The judge walks in, and I meet his eye. It\u2019s Judge Marigonda, the same judge who sentenced me. Elizabeth, the assistant district attorney, and the probation officer all approach the bench. I can\u2019t hear what they are saying, but at times they all glance in my direction. I eye the bailiff nervously. I\u2019ve done nothing wrong, but I feel guilty and stare with mounting dread at the handcuffs on his belt. After about fifteen minutes, the ADA and probation officer go back to their table, and Elizabeth waves me up. \u201cMs. Love,\u201d the judge acknowledges me. My mouth is too dry to speak so I just nod. \u201cMs. Love, we understand you have been released early for good behavior and as part of the work-release program.\u201d \u201cYes, Your Honor.\u201d My voice is small and weak. \u201cMs. Love, we have decided to modify your sentence.\u201d I look over at my attorney desperately and take a big inhale to speak, but she shakes her head at me and smiles at the judge. \u201cWe are going to take you out of drug court and send you to Family Preservation Court. You have probation requirements and requirements from the CPS court and will also have requirements from Family Preservation Court. I want to see you in my courtroom the morning after every appearance you have in Family Preservation Court. Commissioner Siegel oversees that court, so I will be getting updates from him directly on your progress. If you mess up, you will be remanded. Is that clear?\u201d I nod. \u201cI need a verbal answer, Ms. Love.\u201d \u201cYes, Your Honor.\u201d \u201cI saw you walking to Probation yesterday as I was driving to the courthouse,\u201d the judge adds. I nod again. \u201cI saw with my own eyes that you didn\u2019t have a car, nor were you driving by a daycare at the same time I was driving by you. You have a big uphill battle in front of you, Ms. Love, but I trust you are up to the task. I was also happy to see you at the Gemma graduation. We\u2019re going to be seeing a lot of each other now.\u201d I swallow nervously. \u201cThank you, Your Honor,\u201d my attorney says. I mumble \u201cThank you\u201d and turn toward the door. \u201cWait for me outside,\u201d Elizabeth whispers. In the hallway I blink at the bright lights, not sure what has just transpired. When Elizabeth emerges from the courtroom, she pulls me to a quiet area in the hall where her husband, Jonathan, joins us. I haven\u2019t seen him since my sentencing. \u201cThey know the call was a fake,\u201d says Jonathan. \u201cSo you don\u2019t have to worry.\u201d \u201cBut what about the next call?\u201d I ask. \u201cCan anyone just call Probation and lie about me?\u201d My freedom, so newly won, feels fragile. What a fool I was to believe that I only had to do the right thing and it would all be okay. Elizabeth and Jonathan have no answer for me. \u201cWhat is Family Preservation Court?\u201d I ask. \u201cAnd why did I get moved there?\u201d \u201cLook, your husband is going to be out in a few weeks,\u201d says Elizabeth. \u201cThe court and Probation want to separate you from him. He will be in drug court, and you will go to Family Preservation Court, which includes outpatient treatment at night, testing, and court appearances on your progress, with the CPS attorneys and social workers in attendance. It\u2019s a good thing. It\u2019s a reward. It will help you get your son back sooner.\u201d \u201cBut what about getting my record cleared and getting off probation when I finish and all the other benefits of drug court?\u201d I ask. \u201cWill I lose those?\u201d \u201cNo, you\u2019re not being punished. They want you to succeed. And they think you\u2019ll have a better chance of succeeding if you\u2019re in a different program from your husband. Although I\u2019ve never heard of a criminal court wanting you to appear every time you have Family Preservation Court. Marigonda really wants to be able to lock you up if you relapse, like they do in drug court.\u201d \u201cWill you be there in criminal court with me?\u201d I don\u2019t understand how probation works or if public defenders are still your defenders after you get out of jail. \u201cOne of us will be there. We represent you.\u201d \u201cBut how do you get paid?\u201d \u201cWe are private attorneys, but we contract with the county public defenders\u2019 office. You and your husband couldn\u2019t have attorneys from the same place. It\u2019s a conflict.\u201d I nod. I don\u2019t know why I didn\u2019t know this ten months ago, but it makes sense. \u201cYou can\u2019t relapse,\u201d says Elizabeth. \u201cDrug court only locks you up for the weekend. I have no idea what this judge will do. He could put you away for much longer as a probation violation. You don\u2019t have the wiggle room of drug court.\u201d I\u2019m not worried about relapsing\u2014I know my rock bottom has been bad enough. I won\u2019t mess up. I take a deep breath. \u201cDoes DJ know I am out?\u201d \u201cHe\u2019s not our problem,\u201d says Elizabeth. \u201cI know, but\u2026\u201d \u201cHe shouldn\u2019t be yours either.\u201d Elizabeth says this softly, and Jonathan nods. \u201cWell, does the jail know I\u2019m here or am I in trouble with them already?\u201d \u201cYou can leave work release if you have court, or if Probation calls you in, or if you have to drug test. Just tell them in the lobby the day before or if you get called in to test, just let them know who\u2019s requiring it that day so they can confirm. You can explain why you\u2019re late today, and if they\u2019re worried about it, they will confirm with Probation.\u201d It seems complicated and inefficient, but I nod. \u201cWe have to go. Call the office if you have any questions.\u201d \u201cThanks,\u201d I say. I don\u2019t add that I don\u2019t have a cell phone because I am tired of my own voice bringing up problems. I am more fucked than I thought. On Thursday I go to Family Preservation Court as a requirement of probation. There, I learn that one requirement of Family Preservation Court is attending Sobriety Works\u2014an outpatient three-night-a-week-for-three-hours program at the other end of the county. Every Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday night for a year I will go to group treatment, be drug tested by yet another entity, attend outside twelve-step meetings, and meet with a private counselor. CPS also requires me to meet with a different private therapist. Probation doesn\u2019t care about therapy, but they do require me to get a job and go to a different set of meetings. I have no idea how I\u2019ll manage all my new responsibilities: going to three different courtrooms, pee testing for multiple agencies at different sites, seeing two therapists, going to twelve-step meetings, working at the jail, and supervised visits with Kaden. I write lists of each agency\u2019s requirements, cross-reference them against each other, and tape them to the wall of my motel room like a murder board. Every Thursday morning I go to Family Preservation Court, where the judge and the CPS social workers and Sobriety Works treatment counselors will discuss how I did that week, check that I\u2019ve been going to recovery meetings, and log it all into the system that will feed into CPS court and criminal court. On Friday mornings I go to criminal court and stand in front of Judge Marigonda, so he can read the report from the Family Preservation Court judge and tell me whether I have fucked up and am going back to jail. Both judges then send reports to the CPS court judge. So many judges, so little time. I\u2019ve never been great at peeing on demand, so all this random drug testing requires me to hydrate excessively each day. It\u2019s a pain, but on the plus side, my skin looks fabulous. It\u2019s stressful not having a car and never knowing when you are going to be required to trek across the county to a drug test. It\u2019s a full-time job meeting all the requirements\u2014complicated by the fact that one of the requirements is getting a full-time job. The first time I have to take the bus across town for Sobriety Works, I give myself two hours to travel the eight or so miles. I haven\u2019t been to Aptos since I was arrested, and I live in fear of running into one of my former neighbors. I know they would never take the bus, but still I\u2019m afraid someone will recognize me. In my mind, everyone who looks at me for more than half a second knows that I am the neighbor from hell. There\u2019s a fine line between shame and narcissism. At the bus stop, I try to make sense of the schedule, the bus numbers, and the routes, but it might as well be hieroglyphics. It\u2019s raining, and I jump on the first bus heading south. After more than an hour, it pulls into a large mall halfway to Aptos. Everyone gets off but me. \u201cLast stop,\u201d says the bus driver. \u201cBut I\u2019m trying to get to Aptos. The seventy-one is supposed to go to Aptos.\u201d I say this with more conviction than I feel, because I\u2019m not even sure I\u2019m on the 71. \u201cThis isn\u2019t the bus to Aptos.\u201d \u201cWhen is the next bus to Aptos?\u201d \u201cLook at the schedule, but probably not for another thirty minutes. Maybe more.\u201d \u201cCan\u2019t you take me to Aptos?\u201d \u201cI\u2019m not a taxi, this is a public bus.\u201d He shakes his head. \u201cBut I didn\u2019t know I had to get off here\u2026\u201d I don\u2019t know why I am telling him this. He has nothing to do with the obstacle course I have to run every day. \u201cAll buses go to the same place,\u201d he says. I don\u2019t know what to say to this. For some reason, it strikes me as profound. Like a black-and-white photo, or anything said in a British accent. But it also drains me of hope. This moment breaks me. The darkness outside, the fact that I will be late to my first night at Sobriety Works, and all the horrible consequences I imagine has me ugly crying in the back of a bus. I don\u2019t have a car, a job, a friend, a partner, an ally. I don\u2019t have anyone to help me get where I need to go in this new life of mine. Even when I get Kaden back, I won\u2019t have a home to fit the rest of my boys. All I\u2019ve focused on is getting out and getting Kaden back. That is how I\u2019ve triaged my life. But always in the back of my mind this painful truth has lurked. Never again can I wake them up in the morning for school, nag them to do their homework, curl up on a couch and watch a movie with them. I can\u2019t pick them up from school, drive them to their basketball games, or sit in their room at night and talk about their day. I have lost my three older boys in those ways forever. And I miss them so much I can\u2019t breathe. I miss being their mom. I hate myself for what I have done to them. Kaden may be young enough to forget, but my older boys never will. I am their torment, the source of their shame. I will be their college essay topic and the star of their therapy sessions for years to come. And now I am lost on a bus at an empty mall on a Monday night, grieving for the life I took for granted, grieving for my children, grieving for all the mundane moments that now feel like lost treasure. The driver interrupts my tearful reverie. \u201cThis is the end of the line. You have to get off.\u201d His face in the rearview mirror looks worried and maybe slightly afraid. He looks over his shoulder at me. \u201cSeriously, you need to get off.\u201d I wipe my eyes as I walk toward the front of the bus. \u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d he mumbles as I pass him. \u201cNo, I\u2019m sorry,\u201d I say, and I rush down the stairs into the rainy night. The only good thing about working outside the main jail all day is that it\u2019s exhausting. I doze off early at the Hitching Post and sleep dreamlessly. I\u2019m also happy that there are cameras outside the jail. I make sure to walk directly in front of them every two hours and go inside to ask the officer on duty a random question about the weed whacker or the pruning shears or whether there are more gloves handy. I need to make sure nobody can say I am somewhere I\u2019m not. The fear of someone calling Probation again has turned me chatty. Every night before I go to sleep, I write down who I talked to and at what times and what I did all day. The days turn into weeks, and I discover that I love blowing autumn leaves with the leaf blower. It\u2019s the only thing that makes me feel powerful. I have the leaf blower backpack on during my last day of work release when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn around and it\u2019s DJ. His head is completely shaved. I drop the backpack and give him a big hug. \u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d \u201cThey let me out a few days early,\u201d he says. \u201cAre you\u2026 okay?\u201d I ask. I scrutinize him for signs of drug use, but he looks clear-eyed and healthy. \u201cAll good,\u201d he says. \u201cHow did you get here?\u201d He tilts his head toward the parking lot where his mom sits in her Mercedes. \u201cWhat time are you done?\u201d \u201cFour p.m. It\u2019s my last day.\u201d \u201cI know. I think that\u2019s why they held me until now. I should have been out on work release too.\u201d \u201cI think they are trying to separate us. Did you know I got moved to Family Preservation Court instead of drug court?\u201d \u201cYeah, Maya told me. It\u2019s some more bullshit.\u201d \u201cI think it\u2019s good. It\u2019s going to help us get Kaden back.\u201d He wraps his arms around me tightly. \u201cNobody is going to separate us again. They can do what they want. It\u2019s me and you.\u201d I murmur agreement and rest my head on his shoulder. It feels good to not be alone, but I close my eyes so I can pretend I feel more than that for the husband I have not seen in such a long time. \u201cWe\u2019ll be back to get you at four p.m. My mom is going to help us find a place.\u201d \u201cAre you serious?\u201d \u201cYep. I told you I\u2019d take care of things.\u201d I look over at Carol in the car and give her a big smile and a wave. Finding a place is the first step to getting Kaden back, and I\u2019m so grateful she\u2019s willing to help. My mind flashes on all the girls in G who won\u2019t have help finding a place so they can get their babies back. There\u2019s Section 8 housing, but the waitlist is three years long. I applied for it from G, but with a wait that long almost everyone\u2019s CPS clocks would run out before they get bumped up the list. Then you have to find a landlord willing to take a voucher, and those landlords are rare. \u201cWe only need a one-bedroom,\u201d I say, \u201cso Kaden can have his own room, and we can sleep on a futon in the living room. Maybe even a studio, and we could divide it. He needs his own room in some way.\u201d My mind is racing. What does CPS require? What does Kaden need to feel like he\u2019s home? I know that he needs me, but I am not enough for CPS. \u201cWe\u2019re going to look for places while you finish up. Try to find something we can look at in person today. My mom\u2019s booked us a hotel until we find a place.\u201d \u201cI have a few more days at the Hitching Post\u2026\u201d \u201cThere is no way I\u2019m staying at the Hitching Post. We\u2019ll grab all your stuff from there too.\u201d \u201cOkay\u2026\u201d It feels disconcerting to have someone else making decisions for me suddenly. It\u2019s another big change, and any change right now gives me vertigo. \u201cAnd what the hell did you do to your hair?\u201d asks DJ. I could ask him the same question, but instead I touch my head self-consciously. Last week, I bought a four-dollar box of brown hair dye and darkened my hair in my Hitching Post bathroom. \u201cI don\u2019t want people recognizing me,\u201d I say. \u201cI feel like I\u2019m getting stared at a lot on the bus. I want to be anonymous.\u201d \u201cFuck those people,\u201d says DJ. I\u2019m afraid of those people. Maybe people don\u2019t see the \u201cneighbor from hell\u201d when they stare at me, or maybe they do. All I see when I look in the mirror is that headline staring back at me. I don\u2019t want to be who I am, and the brown hair helps. I look in the mirror and I don\u2019t recognize the scared, anxious, brown-haired girl looking back at me. I was worried about how Kaden might react to my new hair color, but he hadn\u2019t even noticed. When we\u2019re together, we\u2019re just looking in each other\u2019s eyes and playing and talking and laughing. I could be bald and he wouldn\u2019t care. I\u2019m just his mom and he\u2019s just my KK, my \u201cCakes,\u201d and we don\u2019t care about anything but being together. Dylan, Cody, and Ty came to see me at the motel, and they were happy but cautious, especially Dylan. \u201cTrust is something you have to earn, Mom,\u201d he said, and he\u2019s right. All I can do is show up each day and do the next right thing. I don\u2019t care if DJ hates my hair. Plus, if someone calls Probation with a fake report, they\u2019ll give the wrong description of me. My brown hair is my biggest safety net right now. Carol helps us rent a four-hundred-square-foot apartment, and we move in a week later. She lends us a car too. The rent is a thousand dollars a month. Our mortgage used to be more than five times that, but now I have no idea how we will pay. Carol will help us for a few months, but we both need jobs. I have no idea how to find a job that will hire a felon, much less allow me to leave on any given day for one to three hours depending on whether Probation, Family Preservation Court, or CPS demands a drug test. Since it\u2019s all County-related, you would think one of the agencies could do the random drug testing and share the results with the others, but it doesn\u2019t work that way. After two months of supervised visits and drug tests and drug court for DJ and Family Preservation Court for me, our social worker comes to inspect our apartment. It\u2019s only one bedroom, but I deck that out with books and art supplies and a bunk bed with a slide that I know Kaden will love. Some of it is stuff from our old house, others are things I find at Goodwill and the dollar store and garage sales. You can pretty much see the whole apartment once you step in the door, but I show our CPS worker the entire place like I am giving a grand tour. It\u2019s not much. It\u2019s not fancy. But it has a bedroom for Kaden, I explain. It\u2019s safe. It\u2019s a home. I show her how the futon turns into a bed and say that\u2019s where we will sleep while Kaden has the bedroom. I doubt he will sleep on his own, but I don\u2019t tell her that. After the tour, she says she will allow unsupervised visits, then overnights. If all goes well, we can be reunified before his fifth birthday in December. This feels like the first victory I\u2019ve had in a year. \u201cIt\u2019s a cute place,\u201d she says. \u201cI\u2019ll see you in Family Preservation Court next week.\u201d I thank her profusely. DJ is standing behind me during this exchange, and as soon as she leaves he goes into the bathroom. I can see Kaden living here. I can see reading him books as he falls asleep. Two more months and I\u2019ll be able to breathe again. Sleep again. I open the bathroom door to tell my husband how excited I am, how for the first time I see a glimmer of a path forward, how I feel hope again. He startles when I burst in. It takes me a while to register what I\u2019m seeing. A mirror, white lines of powder on the mirror, a rolled-up dollar bill. I have no words. \u201cI failed my drug test,\u201d he says. \u201cDrug court is remanding me for the weekend.\u201d \u201cWhat do you mean they\u2019re remanding you?\u201d I ask. I know what remanding means; it means the bailiffs are going to take him back to jail and lock him up. What I don\u2019t understand is how this could be happening. How he could say he\u2019s taking care of us and then do this. \u201cI tested dirty, so I have to go back to jail from tonight until Monday morning.\u201d He says this slowly, as if I\u2019m an idiot, and shrugs like it\u2019s no big deal. \u201cWhat did you test dirty for?\u201d \u201cHeroin.\u201d I point at the white lines on the mirror. \u201cWhat is that?\u201d He looks surprised at the question. \u201cIt\u2019s no big deal.\u201d It\u2019s a big fucking deal to me. I feel stupid for not knowing. For somehow thinking we were on the same page. That we were a team. That he had finally changed. If I stay with DJ, I will end up back in jail, and I will lose Kaden. I can\u2019t go back, and I won\u2019t lose him. \u201cGet out,\u201d I say quietly. \u201cTake all your stuff. Take the car your mom gave us. Get out.\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s no big deal,\u201d he insists. \u201cI\u2019m snorting my antidepressants. I just did heroin once last week with my homeboy from jail. That\u2019s why I tested dirty. This is just my antidepressant.\u201d \u201cYou have ten minutes to get all your stuff.\u201d He swears and punches the bathroom door. \u201cEight minutes.\u201d He piles his things into the car. I know his mom won\u2019t pay the rent now that I\u2019ve kicked him out. I know that without a car it will be hard to get to all the courthouses and drug tests and therapy sessions, but I will find a way. He pulls a towel from the closet and stacks it on his suitcase. His face is red except for the dusting of white powder around his nostrils. \u201cYou hypocrite. You\u2019re just looking for a way out of this marriage. You\u2019re making a huge mistake, you heartless bitch!\u201d he shouts. I don\u2019t have anything to say to that, but I\u2019m not heartless. I\u2019m Mama Love, so I open the linen closet, pull out a washcloth, and place it on top of his towel. He slams the front door as he leaves, and I rush to lock it. In jail it\u2019s not okay to snitch, but I\u2019m not in jail anymore. My hands shake as I dial our CPS worker, but my voice is strong as I tell her everything. \n chapter 15 JOINT AND SEVERAL I get word that Kaden will be allowed to move in with me right before his fifth birthday. Darcy brings over all his clothing vacuum-sealed in clear plastic bags. Right now she controls access to my older boys, so I smile at her and pretend I have forgotten all the ways I believe she tried to thwart this reunification. \u201cI\u2019m not sure what I will do for his birthday, but you\u2019re welcome to come,\u201d I say. She smiles a big fake smile and looks around my minuscule apartment. \u201cYou might want to do something at my house. Well, in the yard. I don\u2019t want you in my house.\u201d I fake smile back at her while Kaden grips my hand tightly. When she leaves he and I just look at each other. \u201cDo you want to cuddle?\u201d I ask. \u201cRead a book?\u201d He just holds his arms out to me. I pick him up and he clings to me and nestles his head in my neck. I carry him to the couch, and he stays wrapped around me as I sit. I kiss his head and face and soak in the warmth of him. We\u2019ve had two overnight visits, but he knows today that he doesn\u2019t have to go back. As long as I don\u2019t do drugs, we can stay together forever. And then I remember all the probation requirements that can send me back to jail even if I do nothing wrong. A missed phone call. A missed test. A missed check-in at court. Anyone calling at any time to make something up about me. But today he is with me, and I try to remain in the power of now. I rock him and murmur sweet words into the top of his head. We sit like this until he falls asleep in my arms. The memory of him sobbing and CPS pulling him away from my handcuffed arms flickers across my mind like it always does when I have a quiet moment, but I will it away. I vow silently to do everything I can to make this last year up to him. My arms go numb holding him while he sleeps, but I will not disturb him by moving. When he wakes up, we walk the two feet into our miniature kitchen, where I get him grapes and make him a sandwich. We sit at the tiny Formica table I found at a garage sale \u201cFree\u201d pile, and I ask him what he wants to do for his birthday. He shrugs shyly. \u201cHold on,\u201d I say. \u201cI got you something!\u201d I run to his room and grab a balloon I bought at the dollar store. Kaden loves balloons, and he loves to play a game he calls pack attack, where you hit the balloon back and forth to keep it from touching the ground. \u201cWe can play pack attack,\u201d I say, handing him the balloon. He carefully cradles it in his hands. \u201cThank you,\u201d he says solemnly. He sets the balloon on the table, walks over to me, and wraps his arms around my waist. I hug him back, not knowing why he is so serious. \u201cOf course,\u201d I say brightly. He looks up at me, all blond hair and blue eyes and chubby cheeks. \u201cThank you, Mommy. I love my birthday present.\u201d I see what the last year has done to him. A single balloon is the most he can imagine from me. \u201cIt\u2019s just a balloon,\u201d I assure him. \u201cNot your birthday present.\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s okay,\u201d he says, but I hear the doubt in his voice. \u201cI was thinking we could get some Star Wars Legos,\u201d I say, \u201cand then we can build a spaceship!\u201d \u201cReally?\u201d \u201cYes, really!\u201d I give him big, loud smooches. He laughs at the smooches and then turns and grabs the balloon. \u201cPack attack!\u201d he yells. I dive to keep it from hitting the ground and yell \u201cPack attack\u201d as I send it soaring into the living room. He laughs and runs after it, and we spend the next hour chasing it around our tiny apartment. Later that night when he\u2019s asleep, I swallow my pride and call Darcy. I ask her if I can set up a bouncy house in her yard for Kaden\u2019s birthday. I then ask her if I can speak to my older boys, and they agree to help me set up a treasure hunt on the beach for Kaden as well. For Dylan\u2019s fifth birthday I had a huge party with Big Bird from Sesame Street and pony rides for all the kids. For Cody\u2019s fifth birthday we went to Disneyland. For Ty\u2019s fifth birthday we had a giant pool party and costumed Barney the Purple Dinosaur. I stay awake almost all night, constantly checking on Kaden while he sleeps and wondering how I\u2019m going to pay for a bouncy house and a birthday party and Legos. I know presents shouldn\u2019t matter to me, but they do. Five is a big birthday and I missed his birthday last year. And Christmas. And everything for all my boys. I\u2019ve been so focused on the acute crisis of not losing Kaden that I haven\u2019t begun to tackle the chronic problem of creating a home for all my boys. I need a big house. I need space for them. I\u2019m embarrassed at the idea they will be embarrassed by where I live right now. I spent so much of my childhood embarrassed by my family, and now I think my own boys must be embarrassed to have me as their mom. I\u2019m certainly embarrassed to be me. A part of me simply wants to give up. Call it. Game over. I will never be the mom they deserve. And another part of me knows I\u2019m just feeling raw and hypersensitive and sober and alone. I want to give up, but I won\u2019t. One birthday party at a time. Every time I close my eyes over the next few weeks, I see Kaden\u2019s face turned up to mine in gratitude for a dollar-store balloon. Within weeks his good behavior, his excessive politeness, ends. He is eating well, which is a relief, but now he offers up tantrums and random bursts of anger. I theorize that subconsciously he\u2019s trying to push me away just to see if I go. He tests me every chance he gets, and through it all I try to remain steady and nonreactive. I tell the CPS-ordered therapist that his rage is a relief. \u201cWhy?\u201d she asks. \u201cBecause the good behavior meant that he thought his bad behavior had caused our separation. That I left him on purpose because of something he did. I\u2019d much rather he blame me than blame himself.\u201d She nods but, like a therapist, doesn\u2019t indicate whether I\u2019m right or wrong. \u201cHe thought I got him a dollar-store balloon for his birthday,\u201d I say. \u201cThat sounds like a fine birthday present.\u201d \u201cNo, it was the look on his face. He was so sad and serious and he was\u2026 he was caretaking me in that moment. I grew up thinking I was responsible for everybody else in my family\u2014that their well-being depended on me. I can\u2019t have him think that, I just can\u2019t!\u201d I didn\u2019t mean to say all that. She works for the court and I need to focus only on Kaden\u2019s well-being. \u201cTrauma is tricky,\u201d she observes. \u201cWell, what should I do?\u201d She tilts her head in the way only basset hounds and therapists do. \u201cWhat do you think you should do?\u201d If I were president I would sign an executive order never allowing therapists or anyone to answer a question with a question. Especially not this question. If people knew what to do, would therapy even be a profession? She must see the look of disgust on my face because she basset-hounds her head to the other side, turns over a sheet of paper on her clipboard, and clears her throat. \u201cYou might want to consider working to process your own trauma.\u201d \u201cWhat trauma?\u201d \u201cWell, to start there is the trauma of your arrest, being in jail, Kaden being in the system.\u201d \u201cThat\u2019s not trauma,\u201d I say. \u201cI caused all that. All those things are my fault, not my trauma.\u201d \u201cTrauma is complex\u2026\u201d \u201cWill Kaden be okay?\u201d I interrupt her. \u201cLike I said, he\u2019s a perfectly normal child. Five-year-olds have tantrums and meltdowns all the time. This is normal behavior. Don\u2019t read into it too much.\u201d She flips through his folder. \u201cHe does well in preschool, he\u2019s sweet, he\u2019s communicative, he laughs a lot, he plays, he has friends, he\u2019s eating, he\u2019s sleeping, he\u2019s a happy and well-adjusted little boy, and he obviously loves you.\u201d It\u2019s hard for me to believe it could be true. I desperately want it to be true. The therapist clears her throat and sets the folder down. \u201cBut tell me, how are you sleeping? When is the last time you laughed and played with anyone besides Kaden? Do you have friends?\u201d \u201cWhat do you think?\u201d I ask, tilting my head pointedly to the side. I am nervous for our next CPS court hearing. Kaden is living with me full time, and as hard as it has been to meet all my requirements alone, it\u2019s even harder to do it with a five-year-old in tow. I was a single mom of three boys for almost ten years before I married DJ so I am no stranger to the challenges, but without a job, money, a car, or a friend it is like I am running an obstacle course designed by a sadist while carrying a five-year-old on my back. I can\u2019t put him down. I don\u2019t want to put him down. But we are clinging so tightly to each other that it\u2019s hard for either of us to get enough air to run this marathon. A friend of my mom\u2019s has an old car she doesn\u2019t want. It barely runs, but it\u2019s mine if I can get up to San Francisco and drive it back home. I have to go to traffic court to get my license reinstated because I couldn\u2019t fix an expired registration fix-it ticket while I was in jail so my license was suspended. It\u2019s another fine I must add to the growing list of court fees that amount to service charges for being on probation, for being monitored by the courts, for paperwork that\u2019s been filed. I can\u2019t opt out of these. These charges are yet another way the system makes it seemingly impossible to get past my past. But my next visit to CPS court makes me think I can put my past behind me. Judge Guy has long brown hair, big brown eyes, and a warm smile. Our massive files are stacked before her, and she peers out at us over the top of them. She quickly observes and interprets the fact that, for the first time in this courtroom, DJ and I are not sitting together. \u201cBoth parents are responsible for meeting the reunification requirements individually,\u201d she reminds us. \u201cBut do we both have to?\u201d I quickly whisper to my new CPS attorney whose name I don\u2019t even know. \u201cWhat if DJ doesn\u2019t do anything? What if he relapses? What if he\u2019s in jail?\u201d Judge Guy seems to know what I am whispering because before my attorney can even respond she says, \u201cI\u2019d like to remind all parties that this court also has the power to determine custody matters, both legal and physical. That can be done here and not in family divorce court. That can be settled prior to divorce court proceedings.\u201d I let this sink in. If I meet all the requirements, I can get permanent custody of Kaden regardless of what DJ does or doesn\u2019t do. Judge Guy asks me how Kaden is doing now that he\u2019s living with me. I report on his progress, and she tells me I\u2019m doing a great job. She doesn\u2019t address DJ. I latch on to her validation like a life raft. When the hearing is over, my attorney tells me that if I do all the work, DJ\u2019s actions will have no effect on Kaden\u2019s custody situation. \u201cHe can do drugs, go to jail, whatever he wants. If you have sole custody, it will be up to you to protect Kaden, to show you will do that even if it means keeping him from his father. If you don\u2019t, they can take him again.\u201d It is one more weight I must carry. Kaden and his dad love each other, but I may have to keep them apart to keep Kaden. Somehow, DJ graduates drug court early. I\u2019m still on probation with two months left at Sobriety Works, but he\u2019s done with probation, with random drug tests, and the obligation to pay back our debts. The probation department has even given him a thousand dollars, presumably to help him get back on his feet. Never mind that his mother is bankrolling him. When he gloats about this bonus over the phone, I shoot back, \u201cWhy would they do that? What about our restitution? You\u2019re not supposed to get off probation until all restitution is paid.\u201d \u201cI don\u2019t know why, it\u2019s part of drug court. I didn\u2019t ask questions; I took the money. But our restitution is now your restitution.\u201d \u201cThe restitution is joint and several,\u201d I say. \u201cWe\u2019re responsible together and equally.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m off probation, which means I don\u2019t have to pay anything. The \u2018several\u2019 means you. You are responsible now.\u201d The unfairness of this has me shaking. I\u2019m so angry, but my anger always comes out in tears and a wobbly voice. \u201cYou aren\u2019t going to help?\u201d I ask. \u201cYou\u2019re going to make me pay it all back myself?\u201d \u201cMy mom paid part of it so we could get our plea, that was my share.\u201d \u201cShe paid that for both of us, for Kaden.\u201d \u201cNope.\u201d Paying off thousands of dollars all by myself is impossible. I will be on probation forever. \u201cCan you even look at yourself in the mirror right now?\u201d I try to say this with righteous force, but it comes out weak and unsteady. Not the effect I was going for. \u201cHalf that money is bullshit money for things we didn\u2019t do. I\u2019m not paying anything.\u201d \u201cSo I\u2019m going to take care of Kaden, do everything for CPS, pay back the money, while you do\u2026 what?\u201d I walk out the back door of our apartment so Kaden can\u2019t hear me. The minute I am outside, my voice matches the anger I feel. I am yelling. \u201cShoot heroin with your ridiculous homeboys? You grew up in fucking Los Gatos! You\u2019re going to dress like you\u2019re a gangster now and go in and out of jail like it\u2019s what, cool? What gang do you represent again\u2026 the mortgage broker gang? The mommy-pays-your-rent crew?\u201d I sound ridiculous even to myself, but it\u2019s easier to get mad than to feel betrayed, abandoned, lost, alone. After I slam the phone down, I take Kaden for a walk. We walk away from the beach toward Santa Cruz. It\u2019s only when we are a block away from the Gemma offices that I realize where I\u2019ve been going. Gemma. Cassandra. Graduation. The last place I felt welcomed and celebrated. There\u2019s a new executive director named Cynthia who I don\u2019t know very well but who invites me into her office. She offers Kaden some toys, and he plays in a sitting area next to her office while I vent and spew to her about all my struggles. \u201cBut you\u2019re doing it,\u201d she points out. \u201cYou are showing up every day and doing it.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m so tired,\u201d I moan, and tears start to come. I quickly wipe them away. \u201cOf course you\u2019re tired.\u201d She looks through the open door at Kaden and then back at me. \u201cBut you\u2019re winning. You\u2019ve already won. Look how much you\u2019ve done in such a short time.\u201d I nod and try to muster some sense of accomplishment, of pride, but I\u2019m still wading in the unfairness of DJ\u2019s situation versus mine. \u201cI\u2019m pretty sure you haven\u2019t made it this far by feeling sorry for yourself.\u201d I laugh at this tough-love comment. Cynthia has multicolored hair and is short and small and beautiful. She also seems like a straightshooter, which I appreciate. \u201cDefinitely not,\u201d I say. \u201cWell then, it\u2019s probably not time to start. Besides, there\u2019s a lot of women who have it a lot worse.\u201d She glances over at Kaden, who stands in the open doorway, and gives him a big smile. \u201cI have cookies,\u201d she says. \u201cLet\u2019s have some cookies.\u201d So we have a picnic on her floor, and Kaden tells her about his bunk bed and how he wants to make curtains around them. \u201cI\u2019m excellent at making curtains,\u201d she says. \u201cWhy don\u2019t we go to the fabric store?\u201d Kaden jumps up and down with excitement and looks at me to ask if it\u2019s okay. \u201cLet\u2019s go to the fabric store, then,\u201d I shout. Cookies, curtains, and a new friend. Such simple gifts really, but they\u2019re just what I needed to get through another day. I graduate Sobriety Works and Family Preservation Court, and a few months later Judge Guy gives me permanent custody of Kaden. As amazing as it feels, it also feels anticlimactic. Every waking moment was devoted to getting him back\u2014it was all survival and struggle and fight. And now the war is suddenly over, and I don\u2019t know how to settle into a normal life. I don\u2019t even know what a normal life is supposed to look like. Maybe I never did. When I ask my new probation officer about getting off probation and getting my record expunged, he tells me that\u2019s only for people in drug court, not Family Preservation Court. \u201cBut I was moved out of drug court as a reward. I was promised the same benefits in Family Preservation Court.\u201d \u201cThere\u2019s nothing in the case notes about that. There\u2019s no order from the judge about that.\u201d \u201cBut my codefendant\u2026\u201d \u201cHe was in drug court.\u201d Yet again, I\u2019m facing brutal and inexplicable inequity, and yet again, I can do nothing about it. I will be on probation for the next five years. At any time, I can be called in to drug test. Any member of law enforcement can search my home and person and car and computer at any time. I can\u2019t leave the county without permission. I have to pay off court fees and fines, which have compounding interest monthly, and I have to pay all remaining restitution. Normal is still a long way off. And I was a fool to think the war had really ended. \n chapter 16 FUCKING GOOGLE In the real world, one graduate degree does not trump one felony, much less thirty-two. Because one of my felonies is for drug possession, I can\u2019t get any cash welfare benefits. The welfare system automatically assumes anyone with a prior drug conviction will spend their money on dope rather than rent, utilities, gas, and food. It doesn\u2019t matter that all my drug tests are clean, or that I\u2019m a graduate of Sobriety Works. The conviction is on my record and that\u2019s the only context that matters. If I had gone to drug court this wouldn\u2019t be an issue\u2014my record would have been expunged. The only way around this is to go back to court, appeal this particular conviction, and get it reduced to a misdemeanor. Another giant hurdle that my short legs can\u2019t clear. Plus, I don\u2019t have childcare and the idea of bringing Kaden to criminal court is untenable. I couldn\u2019t leave him sitting in the back of the courtroom while I stand in front of the judge. And what if something went wrong and they tried to take me back to jail? I can catastrophize at an Olympic level, and I imagine him sitting alone in the back of the courtroom while I am dragged away in handcuffs. Every job I apply for asks me to check a box if I have a criminal record and then explain the charges. There\u2019s not enough space on the application to list all my convictions. And, like welfare, there\u2019s no room for context in these applications, and certainly no place to explain that as long as I\u2019m not on drugs I am a valuable and productive member of society worthy of employment. Online I check the box even though I know it means I\u2019ll be automatically screened out. I could choose not to check the box, but, unfortunately, my recovery program is built on a foundation of rigorous honesty. Rigorous honesty seems great in principle, but it doesn\u2019t translate well to a job search. Or the dating scene, where I\u2019m not having much luck either. It\u2019s hard enough for any soon-to-be-twice-divorced mom of four to hook up, but add the Sentinel headline and my criminal history, and my dating profile should just show a picture of a red flag. I\u2019m lonely but resigned to the fact my future will not contain romance. I also know that picking great life partners is not part of my skill set. Sometimes, I sit on the back porch after Kaden is asleep and imagine someone loving me again. But the idea is as distant and unreachable as the stars I stare at. I feed my melancholy by listening to sad Irish love ballads by David Gray and sad American love ballads by John Mayer. A part of me just loves to wallow. Kaden starts kindergarten, and I am on high alert at back-to-school night and parent-teacher meetings, searching for signs that anyone recognizes me or knows about my past. He makes friends easily, but when other parents want to organize playdates I am at a loss. I\u2019m embarrassed by my tiny apartment, and I don\u2019t want to face the prospect of taking Kaden to their homes and making the small talk that would either reveal my felonious, addictive past or break my code of rigorous honesty. I enroll Kaden in a subsidized after-school program for working parents so he gets to socialize, and I get to be just one of many harried parents trying to afford childcare who have no time or energy to make new friends or linger over coffee. We wave to each other at pickup, but it\u2019s from a safe distance. Cynthia from Gemma calls and says she has a temporary job for me, and I lunge at the opportunity. She wants me to case-manage other formerly incarcerated women with minor children and help them find jobs in the community under a state grant for the Community Action Board. CAB is the nonprofit agency that the Gemma Program runs under. It\u2019s barely enough money to pay the rent, but it pays the rent. My job is to convince employers to hire the formerly incarcerated, match women with the employers, and then case-manage the women so they don\u2019t fuck it up. Basically I have to Mama Love them into compliance\u2014make sure they go to meetings, get out of toxic relationships that might interfere with their employment, help them find the right clothes, and coach them on how to act in different professional settings. I listen to their problems and work with them to find solutions. I do the same with employers. In theory, it seems like a no-brainer for business owners because half the employee\u2019s pay comes from the grant money, but most of my job with the employers is convincing them that a formerly incarcerated woman makes the best employee. And it\u2019s easy, because they do. Someone who\u2019s been behind bars already knows that crime doesn\u2019t pay. They\u2019ve lost everything and appreciate the simple joy of having a job. They\u2019ve dealt with prison politics, so office politics present no challenge. They understand power structures. Each is on probation or parole, so they follow all the rules. They\u2019re used to getting up early and working hard for no pay, so they appreciate minimum wage. But most important, every one of them has something to prove. That they are valuable, worthy, and so much more than a criminal record. I know this about them because I am them. I met extremely smart women in jail\u2014CEO-level smart. Former drug dealers who were sales and marketing geniuses, others who were hustlers and designers and innovators. I\u2019d like to see Elon Musk design Ikea-level modular furniture out of Tampax boxes and toothpaste. I challenge any beauty influencer to create a full glam makeover out of hot water and a box of colored pencils. Or any Michelin-starred chef to make a delicious meal out of Cheetos, ramen, leftover hard-boiled eggs, hot water, and mystery meat. I\u2019m not great at advocating for myself, but I\u2019m really good at advocating for others, and I make some great matches in the business community. I help the women I manage form a co-op with other women in the program to help with childcare. I reach out to other nonprofits to help with r\u00e9sum\u00e9s, business clothing, and transportation vouchers. Arden loves books, so I find her a job at a local bookstore. Hannah tells me about her childhood love of horses\u2014the thing that gave her meaning before meth took over\u2014and I find work for her at an equine therapy program. After her wage subsidy runs out, they keep her on and promote her. The women work harder than is asked, always taking pride in their jobs and exceeding expectations. By all measures, the grant is a success, but, for reasons I cannot guess, the state doesn\u2019t renew it. During my work for CAB, I see that my struggles are hardly mine alone. The barriers to becoming productive members of society are huge for just about anybody who\u2019s been incarcerated. As a condition of probation or parole you have to have a job; to get a job you have to check that box that says you have a criminal record, which excludes you from getting a job. In order to show up to work every day you need somewhere to live; to find somewhere to live, you must have a job. The system is cobbled together out of catch-22s. I learn that if you\u2019ve been incarcerated, you\u2019re ten times more likely to be homeless, and if you\u2019re homeless, you\u2019re eleven times more likely to become incarcerated. It\u2019s a crazy loop-the-loop that\u2019s somehow overlooked in all the conversations about how to reduce recidivism. The system is illogical in its design, broken in its execution, and guaranteed to fail those it allegedly serves. When the grant ends, my job ends. I\u2019m back where I started, which is nowhere. Until Cynthia comes to my rescue again. She calls me shortly after the grant runs out and tells me Cassandra is leaving her position as program director of Gemma. \u201cI want you to apply for the job,\u201d she says. \u201cAre you crazy?\u201d \u201cNo, you\u2019re perfect for it. You know the program, you know the needs of the women in jail, you\u2019ve been advocating for incarcerated women, and you have experience developing curriculum from teaching in graduate school.\u201d When she puts it that way, I consider it. \u201cWhat do I need to do?\u201d \u201cFirst, you formally apply. And then there will be a series of interviews with me, with CAB, with the sheriff\u2019s office and the probation department. All of them contribute to funding the Gemma Program. I love working with you, you\u2019re amazing, and this is perfect.\u201d The pay is twenty-two dollars an hour, which feels like a fortune. I know I will have to find childcare two mornings a week so Kaden can be brought to school while I pick up the women from Blaine Street in the Gemma van and take them to the church. It\u2019s an obstacle, but I\u2019ll figure that out after I get the job. My r\u00e9sum\u00e9 is impressive if you ignore the felonies, and I\u2019ve finally found a job that ignores them. I make it through three rounds of interviews. My final interview is with the deputy whose office I used to clean\u2014whose mother I used to talk to. She\u2019s in charge of the jail now, and she is a tough interrogator, but I can tell by the smile and hug she gives me at the end that I nailed it. Before Cynthia calls to officially offer me the job, I\u2019ve already made lists of potential volunteers and classes that will help the women deal with life after incarceration. I know these women and what they need, because I know what I didn\u2019t know and what I needed. I imagine this being my new career\u2014advocate, changemaker, champion of the underdogs. I think back to the sunny winter day when I sat in Elizabeth\u2019s office newly out on bail and heard about the plea deal. Then I still believed, like the twelve million other people who were arrested that year and the two million who were behind bars, that paying for your crimes meant doing your time and following Probation\u2019s orders, and then your debt was paid. I had no idea how wrong I was, and I wanted to do my part to change that. I\u2019ve told everyone about my new job\u2014my mom, the boys, my probation officer. Cynthia calls me on a Monday to tell me my business cards have arrived, and I can start in a week. On Friday morning, I\u2019m just about to go to a twelve-step meeting when Cynthia calls again. \u201cHello, boss lady,\u201d I answer. \u201cHi,\u201d she says. \u201cWhere are you?\u201d \u201cI\u2019m just about to go into a meeting.\u201d \u201cI have bad news,\u201d she says. \u201cI\u2019m so sorry.\u201d My stomach flips. \u201cWhat is it?\u201d I sit down under a tree. \u201cYou can\u2019t have the job.\u201d \u201cWhat? Why?\u201d \u201cIt came from Probation. They said there is no way someone on probation is going to be allowed to take women out of Blaine and supervise them.\u201d \u201cBut Probation was part of the interview process,\u201d I say. \u201cThis doesn\u2019t make sense. Probation was aware of this every step of the way.\u201d Cynthia is quiet for a while. \u201cIt\u2019s coming from higher up. There\u2019s nothing I can do.\u201d Tom, my old boyfriend, is still the district attorney. His wife is still high up in Probation. I ask if it was her. \u201cI don\u2019t know who it was. All I know is we can\u2019t hire you for the job.\u201d \u201cYou can,\u201d I beg. \u201cYou\u2019re the head of the program. How can they tell you who to hire?\u201d \u201cThey can\u2019t,\u201d Cynthia says. \u201cBut they said Probation would pull their funding if we hired you. Without that money, there\u2019s no Gemma Program.\u201d \u201cI understand,\u201d I say. \u201cI feel so bad,\u201d says Cynthia. \u201cI\u2019m so, so sorry. And I\u2019m furious, it\u2019s so unfair, it\u2019s\u2026\u201d I know this isn\u2019t her fault, but I can\u2019t hear any more about the unfairness of the system I\u2019m in from people who aren\u2019t. \u201cI have to get to my meeting,\u201d I say, interrupting her. \u201cI have to go.\u201d \u201cOkay, but\u2026\u201d I hang up and walk back to my car. I don\u2019t have the energy to go to a meeting and hear some old guy in recovery say that \u201csome days you are the bug, and some days you are the windshield,\u201d or hear platitudes like \u201cyour worst day sober is still better than your best day using.\u201d It\u2019s just not true. Because sometimes your worst day sober is your worst day ever and getting high seems like a really great day. But what do I know\u2026 today I am just a bug. I find an online job at a company called Content Divas where I write blog posts on different topics. There was no background check, just a writing assignment. I have to produce 1,600 words a day. First, it\u2019s ten different posts about savings accounts, then travel in Hawaii. The pay is only enough for gas and rice, but it\u2019s something while I look for a full-time gig. The writing is fun, and I like having a deadline each day and the creative challenge of finding yet another metaphor to highlight the benefits of an online savings account. I imagine walking trails on Diamond Head in Waikiki and write as if I am there, smelling the plumeria and gardenia and being transformed in such a profound way that readers are driven to book their tickets through Content Divas\u2019 client. I\u2019m all too aware of the irony that both a savings account and travel to Hawaii are far out of reach for me. The reality is that I am out of a job, out of money, and out of options. The car I got from my mom\u2019s friend now leaks oil faster than I can afford to replace it, and it can\u2019t accelerate uphill. Today I have an appointment at the county welfare office to appeal the rejection of my application for cash benefits because of my criminal record. I\u2019ve avoided Craigslist when looking for a job because I don\u2019t want to get scammed or murdered, but I realize it\u2019s the only chance of reaching employers without being disqualified by the criminal background question. I decide that if I\u2019m asked, I will reveal my background, but if not I won\u2019t volunteer the information. It\u2019s a don\u2019t ask, don\u2019t tell policy that I feel still jibes with my rigorous honesty policy. I find an ad that\u2019s ten days old, which is a lifetime in Craigslist years, but I call anyway. The woman who answers tells me they are about to make a decision, so I should send an email immediately. It\u2019s an extensive ad for a part-time job as an assistant at a literary agency, but it seems like a fun writing exercise and a way to practice answering honestly without ratting myself out. I think about how great it would be to work with books\u2014my first addiction. Along with my r\u00e9sum\u00e9, I\u2019m supposed to write a paragraph about how I exemplify each required quality: organized, integrity, problem-solving, communicator, investigative, computer savvy, flexible, good with money, committed, and educated. I quickly google the company and Doug Abrams to make sure he\u2019s not a serial killer, while at the same time doubting that someone who works with Archbishop Desmond Tutu is actually advertising on Craigslist. I say a quick prayer and pull up a blank screen to write a letter to go with my r\u00e9sum\u00e9. I write about how good I am under pressure, at meeting deadlines, at multitasking. How there is no task too small or too unimportant for me to do, and that I\u2019m willing to work hard. I share my education and my writing experience. The integrity topic stumps me for a while, but I define integrity as keeping my word and showing up to do what I\u2019ve committed to doing. I don\u2019t want to lie about my criminal background, but nowhere in the application does it ask me about my past. I read it over and am happy with my responses. I allude to mistakes I\u2019ve made without saying what they are. Don\u2019t ask. Don\u2019t tell. That has to be good enough for now, so I send the email. Hours later, when I read it all over, I realize that I\u2019ve misspelled my own email address on my r\u00e9sum\u00e9. So much for that job. Five days later I have an appointment to apply for food stamps. Kaden is with me, and I spend hours trying to entertain him in a dismal lobby crammed with hard plastic chairs and miserable people. We build Legos together while I rehearse in my head exactly how I will plead my case. How can they look at his cute face and then tell me that he doesn\u2019t deserve food because his mom once had a drug conviction? Punish me but don\u2019t punish my son. My phone rings. I startle and drop the Legos. I quickly silence it and look around the waiting room apologetically. I may be a criminal, but I\u2019m not rude, so I answer with a whisper. \u201cHello?\u201d The woman on the other end tells me she is Michelle, Doug Abrams\u2019s assistant, and he would like to meet with me for the job at Idea Architects, the literary agency. Can I be there in an hour? If I walk out of here now, I\u2019m not sure when or if I will get another appointment to appeal my case. And even if I could interview in an hour, I would need to find childcare, change my clothes, print out my r\u00e9sum\u00e9, and get gas. If the office is up a hill, I\u2019m not even sure my car could make it. I can\u2019t go. I hold the phone and watch Kaden walk over to the window and stare out. He needs a mom who is brave, who will feed him and protect him and love him. I don\u2019t feel brave, but\u2026 \u201cHello?\u201d says the woman on the phone. \u201cAre you still there?\u201d \u201cThank you,\u201d I say, with a loud exhale as I hurriedly pack up Kaden\u2019s toys. \u201cI will be there in an hour, of course. I\u2019m looking forward to meeting you and Mr. Abrams.\u201d Idea Architects is a room attached to Doug Abrams\u2019s house. And it\u2019s up a steep hill. But I get there on time. During the interview we discuss my r\u00e9sum\u00e9\u2014my experience teaching English composition and creative writing at UC Irvine, the small literary press I worked for while I was in college\u2014and nothing more. On my r\u00e9sum\u00e9 I only listed \u201crelevant work history\u201d so Doug doesn\u2019t ask me about anything I don\u2019t want to share. I don\u2019t list the pet cemetery business so I don\u2019t have to talk about losing it because of our drug use and jail. At the end of the interview he also doesn\u2019t ask, \u201cBy any chance, do you have an extensive criminal background?\u201d and I don\u2019t volunteer the information. What he does say is, \u201cI\u2019d like to try you out on some tasks first, that way we can both see if we\u2019re a good fit.\u201d \u201cI love tasks,\u201d I say eagerly. \u201cAnd I\u2019d like to have you edit something for me, and read a manuscript and tell me what you think. I\u2019ll pay you of course for these assignments.\u201d I agree to all of it and spend the next two weeks researching minivans and HEPA filters for him as part of my task list, and when he asks me to edit a biography of Desmond Tutu on a Saturday, I quickly learn how to use track changes in Word and return twelve chapters to him by Sunday. I read another manuscript he sent me\u2014a memoir of a doctor who was diagnosed with esophageal cancer and had some crazy woo-woo experiences but was living in gratitude and joy even in the face of death. I love this guy. I love his story. He makes me want to be someone who lives in gratitude and joy. The manuscript is a mess, though. Kaden and I are driving home from a twelve-step meeting when my phone rings. It\u2019s Doug. \u201cWhat did you think of the manuscript?\u201d he asks. It\u2019s after 9 p.m. \u201cI liked it, but it was pretty hard to follow the story,\u201d I say, not wanting to offend him. \u201cIt jumps around too much to track. As a reader I was lost.\u201d \u201cHow would you fix it?\u201d I pull over so I can take my phone off speaker. Kaden is falling asleep in his car seat, and Doug is a loud talker. \u201cWell,\u201d I stall. I do have an idea, but I don\u2019t want to sound ridiculous. I am one hundred percent sure I have a solution to the structural problem, but I have trouble saying it out loud. Sometimes, one hundred percent isn\u2019t enough. I\u2019m not an editor. It\u2019s been a decade or more since I\u2019ve been a writer. I look at Kaden in the rearview mirror, and I think one hundred percent will have to do. I take a deep breath. \u201cI would frame the whole book within the day of his diagnosis,\u201d I say. \u201cBut before he tells his family, and then the next chapter goes back to when he met his wife.\u201d I lay out the rest of the chronology quickly. \u201cHold on,\u201d says Doug. \u201cI\u2019m going to patch you in with the author so you can tell him your ideas.\u201d \u201cWait, what?\u201d I ask, but Doug has already put me on hold. I haven\u2019t talked to any authors since my MFA days, and they were my professors. I\u2019ve certainly never talked to an author with an agent before, and my heart starts hammering. I jump out of the car and stand in front of it so I can see Kaden through the window. I need to sound serious and professional for my surprise conference call. My previous conference call was an illegal three-way hookup in jail where I had a girl patch in Dylan\u2019s cell phone so I could wish him a happy eighteenth birthday. Impostor syndrome kicks into overdrive as I stammer out my approach to the author, but he loves it. He says it\u2019s brilliant. Doug tells him I will be working closely with him on the chapters and the proposal, and collaboratively writing it with him. I don\u2019t know what collaborative writing means. After we all hang up, Doug calls me right back. \u201cThat was great,\u201d he says. \u201cSo does this mean I have the job?\u201d \u201cYou have the job. Congratulations!\u201d I thank him and do a little dance in front of the car, and Kaden starts laughing from his car seat. I get back in the driver\u2019s seat and buckle up. \u201cWe did it, baby guy! We got the job!\u201d He smiles at me, half-asleep. That night as I carry him asleep into our little apartment, it feels like a home. I tuck him into bed in his clothes and kiss his forehead gently. I sit out on the back porch and look up at the stars and thank the universe. The job is only part-time, but it\u2019s a real job. I can work while Kaden is in school. I can help create books that matter, and I feel like I might matter again. For the first time in a very long time peace settles upon me. On my first day at the office, Michelle, who has worked with Doug for five years, greets me. She tells me the Wi-Fi, hands me the keys to Doug\u2019s house and a green pouch with a type of address book in it, and says here are all the passwords to everything and all the bank account and credit card numbers for the business and Doug\u2019s personal accounts. And then she leaves. For a minute I think I must be getting punked, and I stare after her as she drives away. I look around anxiously as if Probation is going to pop out at me. I am alone in Doug\u2019s house with all his credit card numbers. No algorithm needed. I shake my head at such naive trust at the same time as I vow never to break it. Apart from the editing and writing, I\u2019m going to be paying all the bills for the business and for Doug personally, scheduling meetings, coordinating with the bookkeeper, and doing the day-to-day business of running the agency. I don\u2019t know exactly what this entails because my predecessor only gave me a thirty-minute orientation before she peaced out for good. I open my computer and set up a company email address for myself. Michelle had told me that Doug wanted to send out a newsletter with the MyEmma program so that\u2019s what I should work on first. I have no idea what MyEmma is, but I find it online and then I look for the password in the address book and log in as Doug. I quickly learn the program and create a newsletter campaign. The hours in the Craigslist ad said five to twenty a week, but because I want to do more than is expected I bring work home with me every night and don\u2019t tell Doug I\u2019m working unpaid hours after Kaden goes to sleep. We quickly settle into a rhythm in the office and the five to twenty hours becomes twenty-five paid hours right away. At twenty dollars an hour this feels like a fortune. I work on the doctor\u2019s book proposal\u2014a document that\u2019s an abbreviated overview of the book that Doug will use to sell the book before it\u2019s written\u2014on the weekends on my own. I don\u2019t have a desk, so I sit in a big comfy chair across from Doug and work with my computer on my lap. I listen to Doug\u2019s calls with authors, with editors, with friends. He\u2019s smart and generous and curious about everything. He\u2019s enthusiastic and brilliant and full of book ideas. He has three children and a doctor wife, and they are all kind and loving. I sit in my chair watching out the window as his beautiful family passes by in the ebb and flow of their lives, and it makes me both happy and sad. Doug\u2019s son is the same age as Ty, and I love the sound of him and his friends coming and going. I love their laughter, their thumping, their mess, and their energy. Doug and I bounce ideas off each other easily, and he asks my opinion about everything\u2014covers, potential authors, book topic ideas, edits we are each making. It\u2019s like we have been working together for years. We are still in the awkward getting-to-know-you stage, and while at first I was a little suspicious of his kindness, I quickly see that he is just a really good guy. When he tells me I am brilliant, I drive home that afternoon in my leaky, sputtering car feeling brilliant. He doesn\u2019t know that on the day he says this it is my two-year sobriety birthday, but it still feels auspicious. My mind is clear. My energy for the job isn\u2019t chemically induced. Five days later I\u2019m still relishing my natural high and working away in my chair while Doug is on the phone with an author. I suddenly feel the air change, like when a hurricane or a tornado is about to hit, and the world goes silent, and the atmosphere gets thick and muggy and electric. I take a quick breath and slowly look up from my computer and meet Doug\u2019s eyes. In them, I see shock and horror. He ends his call suddenly, his face pale. He stammers as he says, \u201cGary was just telling me that employers now google all their employees, so I googled you.\u201d For a second I can\u2019t breathe. \u201cI didn\u2019t check your references,\u201d he says slowly. I don\u2019t know what to say or do. I want to run. I want to cry. I want to defend myself, but I can\u2019t. \u201cIt says you were convicted of identity theft. That you are the neighbor from\u2026\u201d He doesn\u2019t finish the headline because even in his shock, he is kind. My face feels hot, and the room spins. \u201cI have two years clean,\u201d I say. \u201cI made mistakes\u2026 I hurt people\u2026 but that\u2019s not who I am when I\u2019m clean.\u201d I want to tell him that because he trusted me so instantly and blindly, I would never betray that trust. I want to tell him that I\u2019m trying to get my children and my self-esteem back, and this work is my opportunity to do that, and I would never do anything to jeopardize it. I want to tell him that I don\u2019t even drive a mile over the speed limit because I will never break another law as long as I live. I will never do anything that will hurt my children again. I want to say all of this, but my throat is dry, and I don\u2019t want to start crying. \u201cWhy don\u2019t you leave now,\u201d Doug says. \u201cI need to think about this and call your references and talk to my family.\u201d I walk across the room and pick up the zippered bank pouch. I hand it to him along with the keys to the office. \u201cCome back tomorrow at eleven, and we\u2019ll talk,\u201d he adds. \u201cOkay,\u201d I say. \u201cI\u2019m sorry, Doug. I\u2019m really sorry.\u201d \u201cWe\u2019ll talk tomorrow.\u201d I am embarrassed and mortified and ashamed and lost. Fucking Google. I call Cynthia as soon as I get home and tell her what\u2019s happened. \u201cHe\u2019s already called me,\u201d she says. \u201cI told him that you managed a million-dollar grant and had access to all our information, and I would trust you without reservation.\u201d \u201cThank you,\u201d I say. \u201cHow did he seem?\u201d \u201cKind of stressed, to be honest, and a little mad at himself for not checking references before he hired you.\u201d \u201cWould you have told him I went to jail?\u201d \u201cNot unless he asked,\u201d she says. \u201cI can\u2019t go back there,\u201d I say. \u201cI can\u2019t drive back to that house and face him and lose my dream job all over again.\u201d \u201cYou can, and you will,\u201d says Cynthia. \u201cYou have so much to offer, remember that. I think he\u2019s a good guy. I think he\u2019s going to do the right thing.\u201d At about 4 a.m. I get up and sit on the porch until the sky gets light. The idea of seeing Doug again fills me with dread, but the idea of hiding from him gives me a worse feeling\u2014regret. If he fires me, then he fires me. For a brief shining moment I was brilliant, and I can be brilliant again. He is at his desk when I walk in and sit in my chair. Before he can say anything, I take a deep breath and start talking. \u201cI\u2019m sorry I put you in this position, Doug,\u201d I say, \u201cI really am, but I want to say that I\u2019m just as brilliant today as you thought I was before you read that article. And it\u2019s important to me that you know I didn\u2019t lie to you. If you had asked me, I would have told you. But let\u2019s face it, if I had told you before you asked, I would never have gotten this job. But I am sorry you had to find out the way you did.\u201d My voice quivers, but I speak firmly. \u201cI appreciate you saying that.\u201d Doug\u2019s voice is somber. \u201cI did call all your references. I talked to my family. And I spent all morning really thinking about what it means to walk your talk.\u201d I nod. \u201cLook, I can\u2019t work with Archbishop Tutu and not put into practice his ideas around forgiveness, redemption, and Ubuntu. So what I want to say is I believe in you.\u201d \u201cYou do?\u201d \u201cYes, and I want you to work here. Work with me. Idea Architects needs you.\u201d Tears flow freely down my face. Doug hands me a tissue. \u201cBut maybe we hire someone else to handle the finances, and you handle the writing and editing?\u201d \u201cFair enough,\u201d I say. It stings a little, but I understand. We hire a woman to handle the bills, but I end up overseeing it all anyway. Eventually Doug hands me back the green pouch, the woman leaves, and we don\u2019t talk any more about it. Five months into my job at Idea Architects, we find fraud on one of the credit card accounts\u2014a $700 purchase for a gift basket that nobody ordered. We close the account, and the bank reverses the charge, and Doug seems not to be overly bothered by it since no money is lost. I can\u2019t let the incident go, though. I google the name of the business on the credit card statement and call the number. I talk a store worker into telling me where they shipped the wine basket after he says he cannot legally give me the name. I Google-search all over Ohio until I find all the names that match that address. Unfortunately, it\u2019s an apartment building so there are lots of names connected to the address. I call the store worker back and try again to get the name on the order. He still won\u2019t give it to me. \u201cHow about I just say some names to you, and you tell me if any of them sound familiar to you. That\u2019s not telling me anything. Please,\u201d I say, \u201cmy job depends on it.\u201d It\u2019s not quite true, but it feels true to me. I start reading down a list of names and he clears his throat after one man\u2019s name. \u201cDoes that name sound familiar to you?\u201d I ask. \u201cIt definitely sounds like a name I have seen before,\u201d he says. \u201cI would tell you I love you, but that would be weird, so thank you!\u201d I reverse address search until I find the phone number, a landline that matches the name and address. Easy-peasy. I haven\u2019t thought this all the way through, and as the phone rings in Ohio I realize I don\u2019t know what I\u2019m going to say. A man answers after about five rings. \u201cHi,\u201d I say. \u201cDid you order a gift basket in April?\u201d The man hangs up. I call back and I\u2019m surprised when he answers again. \u201cLook,\u201d I say, \u201cdon\u2019t hang up. I\u2019m not the police.\u201d \u201cWhat, then?\u201d \u201cI just need to know how you got the credit card number you used for the gift basket.\u201d He\u2019s silent for a long time and then, for some crazy reason, decides to answer me. \u201cA guy I don\u2019t know gave it to me, said it might be a working number.\u201d \u201cDid this guy live in California?\u201d \u201cI don\u2019t know him.\u201d I know he\u2019s lying. I also know that sometimes people who work in restaurants will take a quick photo of your credit card when they\u2019re processing your bill and then send the number to friends in another state. This makes the crime untraceable to the restaurant worker, and because people usually eat in the same zip code they live in, the fraudster has everything they need to use or sell a working credit card. \u201cLook,\u201d I say, \u201cthe police are onto the scam. And because it\u2019s across state lines the FBI are involved too.\u201d I\u2019m just making stuff up now, and I have no idea what scam I\u2019m even talking about. \u201cYou will not get another credit card number from any guys you know or don\u2019t know, okay? You aren\u2019t going to jail this time, but you could next time. And trust me, you don\u2019t want to go to jail.\u201d He hangs up. The next day I tell Doug I tracked down the name and number of the person who used his credit card for the wine basket. \u201cWe should tell the credit card company,\u201d he says. I call the company, but they just tell me to call the police. I don\u2019t call the police, though. I hope I scared the guy straight with my crazy phone call. I don\u2019t want to be blamed for the fraud, but I also don\u2019t want this guy arrested. He\u2019ll end up paying for that gift basket for who knows how many years, and I don\u2019t wish that on anyone. I tackled this gift-basket case like I was the love child of the CIA and the NSA, and I go to sleep feeling better. Not because I cracked the case, but because I am now using my powers for good. \n chapter 17 THE FOUR-MINUTE MILE Work becomes my new addiction. I have taken over the finances and the personal assisting, and, after we rewrite the book proposal and sample chapters, the doctor\u2019s memoir sells for far more than anyone had imagined. I become the agency\u2019s official in-house collaborative writer. When Doug tells me about another writing project he has for me, I reply, \u201cYou are crazy.\u201d \u201cNo,\u201d he says, \u201cI\u2019m not. You are the perfect person to help write this book.\u201d He\u2019s talking about The Book of Forgiving by Archbishop Desmond Tutu. I don\u2019t know the first thing about forgiveness. I know about forgetting, but nobody is publishing The Book of Forgetting. I am on probation. I am going through a divorce. I am hated by my community. I am the last person to help write a book about forgiveness. DJ is on a path of self-destruction and missed Kaden\u2019s last birthday\u2014just didn\u2019t show up for his party. I have no forgiveness in me right now. I want revenge, but revenge is reserved for people who aren\u2019t on probation. Plus, I have never cowritten a whole book before. The doctor had done a lot of his own writing, and I wrote bits here and there and reworded some of his prose. An entire book feels like too big an endeavor. In my MFA program I only had the patience for writing short stories, and those were short short stories. I have no idea where to begin. \u201cLet\u2019s make an outline of Arch\u2019s philosophy of forgiveness,\u201d Doug says. \u201cA blueprint that you can write from.\u201d He might as well be asking me to speak Mandarin. I\u2019m a fiction writer by training, and I\u2019ve never done outlines or blueprints. Some do, of course, but I\u2019ve never been able to comprehend how you can know the structure of something before you begin writing. I go along with the program, and we loosely sketch out each chapter, questions we need to ask Archbishop Tutu and his daughter Mpho about what forgiveness is and is not. Doug has worked with him before, and they\u2019ve been talking about this book since before I came to work here, so he has a clear idea what each chapter will be about. My job will be to put it all in beautiful writing once we get the content from the archbishop and Mpho, pull content from his speeches, and find the stories to illustrate the big ideas and each of the key points. The whole outline fits on one sheet of paper. On the back side, we list the four steps to forgiving that are going to form the structure of the book. These have been predetermined. \u201cThere\u2019s just one more chapter to figure out,\u201d says Doug. The whole process has taken less than an hour. \u201cWhat\u2019s the last chapter?\u201d \u201cThe chapter on self-forgiveness.\u201d I make a face at him. \u201cWhat?\u201d he asks, when I sit back in my chair. \u201cI don\u2019t know anything about that,\u201d I say. \u201cOf course you do.\u201d I watch him sketch out six key points for the chapter, and then he hands the outline of the whole book to me. \u201cYou can do this,\u201d he says. \u201cAll your experience in jail makes you the absolute best person to cowrite this book.\u201d I think about Daddy and Kiki and Officer Lonnie and Cassandra. Doug doesn\u2019t know any of my jail experiences, so it\u2019s a stretch for him to say that jail made me the best person to help write this book. But I know he\u2019s trying to hype me up, and I appreciate it. We schedule Skype calls with Archbishop Tutu and Mpho. Because of the time difference the calls are late at night. After Kaden goes to bed, I perch my laptop on my tiny kitchen table and try to angle the camera really high so the yellow fridge four feet behind me doesn\u2019t show. I take notes while Archbishop Tutu speaks, even though it\u2019s all being recorded for transcription. We talk through the outline and revise in real time. I can\u2019t believe Archbishop Tutu is actually in my tiny apartment talking to me. In seventh grade I had done a social studies report on apartheid for my favorite teacher, Mr. Miller. He encouraged me to write every day. I would sit in his class, hiding behind my Farrah Fawcett bangs, and then go home and write stories about all the history lessons he had taught. I wrote a story where I was a soldier in the Vietnam War who didn\u2019t want to fight. I wrote a story that took place during the Armenian genocide. But when we learned about Archbishop Tutu and apartheid, I had written a full essay and created a presentation with poster board and then given an impassioned speech that I was pretty sure would create fairness and equality in South Africa. Now I\u2019m on a video conference with the man himself, but I try to play it cool. Archbishop Tutu is kind and loving and wise and funny, and I pay close attention to his quirks of phrasing and his generosity of language. He is a formal speaker whose language is both precise and lofty. I\u2019ve agreed to do the book, mostly because I don\u2019t really have a choice, this is the job. But then I procrastinate. I don\u2019t call it procrastinating, though; I call it deprioritizing the writing part of the book. It\u2019s not due to the publisher for a year, so I tuck the outline away for as long as possible and instead write more questions for Archbishop Tutu to answer over Skype, and I research forgiveness stories, and I transcribe other talks and do lots of research into the science of forgiveness. When I finally start writing, the early chapters come together easily because I have so much material to work from, but the deadline for delivery is looming, and it\u2019s time to tackle the chapter on self-forgiveness and that\u2019s basically all new material for the book. I pull out the chapter outline and read it over again and then I tell Doug I\u2019m going to a coffee shop to write. The office is small, and Doug talks loudly on the phone, so he wishes me luck and waves me off. \u201cYou can do this,\u201d he says as I walk out the door. \u201cYou can write this chapter.\u201d I get to the coffee shop at 10 a.m. and settle in at a table that\u2019s big enough to spread out all my folders and transcripts. I feel important at my big table doing important work, but the blank screen in front of me is terrifying. I give myself an inner pep talk and glance at the clock. I decide I will not leave this coffee shop until the full chapter is written. I start doing calculations in my head. Twenty-five to thirty pages for the chapter, twelve hours until the coffee shop closes, two to three pages an hour, a page every twenty minutes. It all seems reasonable. I think of Doug\u2019s words: There is no such thing as writer\u2019s block\u2014if you are stuck, it just means you don\u2019t have enough information. I turn it into a game. If I finish three pages before the hour is up, I get to go on Facebook or play Candy Crush until the next hour starts. I race against time and figure I will just get a bad first draft down, and then Doug can edit and make changes. A bad something is better than a great nothing. I realize I trained for this in seventh grade, and I trained for this in jail. My confidence and energy increase. I don\u2019t always meet the one page in twenty minutes but I am close. I write all day and into the night about how you have to be willing to face the harm you\u2019ve caused someone, be willing to make amends, and accept that a person may choose to end the relationship even if they choose to forgive you. I only stop to go to the bathroom, buy more coffee, and check on Kaden who is being watched by Cody. The sound of chairs being put away registers as I type the chapter\u2019s last line. It\u2019s thirty-two pages long. I don\u2019t read it over, and instead email it to Doug with disclaimers about how rough it is and how bad it probably is and how we can revise. But inside I feel good. It\u2019s ten fifteen and I just wrote an entire chapter of a book in one day. A few days later, Doug meets me outside the office when I pull up. \u201cSit down,\u201d he says. We sit on the front steps. I can tell I\u2019m in trouble. \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d Doug looks at me seriously. \u201cWhy does something always have to be wrong?\u201d \u201cReally? Do you even know me?\u201d We both laugh, but I\u2019m still nervous. \u201cI read the chapter you wrote,\u201d he says. \u201cI know it needs work\u2026\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s fucking fantastic.\u201d \u201cReally?\u201d \u201cReally. I mean, do you know what you just did? It\u2019s like watching Roger Bannister break the four-minute mile. You just wrote a thirty-plus-page chapter in a day. That\u2019s not really possible. Only it is possible, and you did it.\u201d \u201cWow, I can\u2019t believe it.\u201d \u201cWell, there was one line I cut\u2014\u2018the hamster wheel of retribution\u2019\u2014that was a little much.\u201d I shrug and laugh. \u201cI thought it was clever, but I\u2019ll fix it.\u201d \u201cI already cut it and sent the chapter to Archbishop Tutu.\u201d \u201cWhat did he say?\u201d \u201cHe said we do a better him than he does.\u201d When I don\u2019t respond, Doug clarifies: \u201cHe loved it, he said to tell you he loved it. We still need to send it to Mpho.\u201d I am stunned and thrilled. \u201cYou know,\u201d I say, \u201cI was thinking it would be good to test out the forgiveness practices in the book.\u201d \u201cHow would we do that?\u201d \u201cWell, I could do them with a certain group of people who really need to learn about forgiveness and self-forgiveness.\u201d Doug thinks for a few seconds and then nods. \u201cThat\u2019s a great idea. We can see which practices really resonate with people. What\u2019s the group?\u201d \u201cThe Gemma Program. I can volunteer to do a course on forgiveness with the girls in jail.\u201d \u201cLara, I think that\u2019s a really good idea. For them and for you.\u201d Cynthia agrees with the idea as well. When I walk in the first day it feels surreal. Sandy, the social worker who was hired to run Gemma after I was fired, is warm and welcoming. I only recognize one girl from my time in G, but I can\u2019t remember her name. \u201cHi,\u201d I say. \u201cMy name is Lara.\u201d \u201cMama Love,\u201d the woman yells and laughs. I look around the room. \u201cThat was my nickname, and I\u2019m a graduate of the Gemma Program.\u201d This gets their attention. \u201cI work for a literary agency now, and I\u2019m working on a project called The Book of Forgiving with Archbishop Desmond Tutu and Mpho Tutu. Does anyone know who Archbishop Tutu is?\u201d Only one woman raises her hand\u2014an older woman of about sixty. \u201cWhen did you get out?\u201d another woman asks. \u201cAlmost four years ago,\u201d I say. \u201cI was the first one out on the work-release program.\u201d The women pepper me with questions about how long it took me to get a job, and did I have a home, and was I still on probation. I answer them all and confirm yes, I\u2019m still on probation. \u201cDoes the guy you\u2019re helping with the book know?\u201d \u201cMy boss knows, but Archbishop Tutu doesn\u2019t know. But he\u2019s an expert on forgiveness so I think he would be okay with it.\u201d I am sure this is true, but I\u2019m also sure that I don\u2019t want him or Mpho to find out. I don\u2019t want any of the authors we work with to find out. I\u2019m afraid of what they would think of me. I\u2019m afraid of them thinking less of me. I don\u2019t say any of this to the Gemma women, but instead tell them about Tutu and apartheid, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, and how mothers forgave the men who killed their sons. \u201cThe book has a lot of forgiveness exercises, prayers, and meditations that Mpho Tutu wrote, and I\u2019d like to try them out with all of you and have you tell me if they\u2019re helpful or not. That will help us decide what to put in the book.\u201d \u201cYou mean if we don\u2019t like them they won\u2019t go in the book?\u201d \u201cProbably not. They might try to improve them or find better ones. And if you\u2019re okay with it, some of the stories you share over the next six weeks might be used in the book. I would change your name, of course.\u201d The older woman raises her hand and asks softly, \u201cIf we wanted you to use our name, could you?\u201d I get choked up at her question because I understand everything she\u2019s not saying. \u201cOf course. If you want your name in the book, it will be in the book.\u201d There\u2019s only time left for me to read Mpho Tutu\u2019s opening prayer about forgiveness called \u201cThe Prayer Before the Prayer.\u201d I want to be willing to let go, to forgive. But dare not ask for the will to forgive, in case you give it to me And I am not yet ready. I am not yet ready for my heart to soften. I am not yet ready to be vulnerable again. Not yet ready to see that there is humanity in my tormentor\u2019s eyes Or that the one who hurt me may also have cried I am not yet ready for the journey. I am not yet interested in the path I am at the prayer before the prayer of forgiveness Grant me the will to want to forgive. Grant it to me not yet but soon Can I even form the words? Forgive me? Dare I even look? Do I dare to see the hurt I have caused: I can glimpse all the shattered pieces of that fragile thing That soul trying to rise on the broken wings of hope But only out of the corner of my eye. I am afraid of it. And if I am afraid to see How can I not be afraid to say: Forgive me? Is there a place where we can meet? You and me The place in the middle where we straddle the lines Where you are right and I am right too. And both of us are wrong and wronged Can we meet there? And look for the place where the path begins The path that ends when we forgive. Several of the women start to cry, and the moment feels bigger than this little room. After a few moments of silence, I break the tension. \u201cSo that one\u2019s a keeper then?\u201d I get the women journals, and for one hour a week for the next six weeks we meet and do the forgiveness exercises. The women are thrilled to be part of a book project, and I understand their thrill. It\u2019s the thrill of feeling like you matter. Like you are part of something bigger than your own sad story. The exercises on asking for forgiveness are hard, as is the discussion about how you have to tell the truth about what you did and then hear the truth about the harm you caused others. But the topic of self-forgiveness is the hardest, especially within a punitive system. The women are hard on themselves, guilty and ashamed and frustrated at the choices they\u2019ve made in life, and I advise them to forgive themselves so they can move on. I tell them that Archbishop Tutu says that telling the truth, witnessing the harm you\u2019ve caused, and asking for forgiveness, even if it\u2019s not given, is the path to freedom. It\u2019s the only way to not be bitter. To not hate yourself so you can have a fighting chance to be something beyond the worst things you\u2019ve done. I teach what I\u2019m not brave enough to do myself. Even out of the system, it\u2019s hard not to stew in the juices of punishment and feel like it\u2019s where I belong. When the book goes to print, I read the acknowledgments section and see Archbishop Tutu has paid tribute to me as his literary companion through many drafts and he calls me an aptly named genius with a heart of gold. It feels good to see my name in his book, to show it to my boys. Chapter by chapter, book by book, I am creating a new legacy to pass on to my children. I am the neighbor from hell in the newspaper, but I am also the person in the acknowledgments of the books I help create. I am officially a ghostwriter, and finishing any chapter feels like being high, only different. The edges are full of confidence, and that makes it nothing like the high of opiates, which were only outlined in glittery fear and false bravado. This feeling will return every time I finish writing a chapter for the next eight years\u2014a feeling I will chase like I used to chase drugs. My phone rings late one night. When I see Darcy\u2019s name on the caller ID, I quickly slip out of bed and go into the bathroom so I don\u2019t wake Kaden. I answer the phone with a question. \u201cAre the boys okay?\u201d \u201cWhat? Hi.\u201d \u201cAre the boys okay?\u201d I don\u2019t know why she\u2019s calling me so late, so of course I am assuming bad news. \u201cYeah, they\u2019re fine.\u201d \u201cOkay, good.\u201d I fall silent, and she does too. Over time, we have established a truce of sorts. We took a picture together when Cody graduated high school. We all went to dinner together the night before Dylan went off to study abroad in South Korea. It was easy to fall back into casual friendliness with Bryan; he doesn\u2019t have the attention span to hold a grudge. I am still wary of Darcy, though, and whenever we\u2019re all together, I end up feeling bad about myself. I told them about my job at Idea Architects in a voice I didn\u2019t like. I sounded hungry for their approval, and they looked at me in a way that made me feel like I was lying. I try to focus on the fact that Bryan and Darcy saved Kaden from foster care with strangers while I was in jail. But I still can\u2019t forget all the ways she hurt me when I was hurting. Darcy takes a deep breath, and I steel myself for another false accusation of some sort. I hate conflict, and especially late-night conflict. I am working on five books at once, and I need what little sleep I can get. \u201cI had therapy today,\u201d she says. I remain silent as I sit down on the edge of the tub and play with the snorkel and goggles Kaden likes to wear in the bath. \u201cMy therapist says you and I should hang out more.\u201d \u201cWhat?\u201d Darcy starts to cry. \u201cYou\u2019re the only one I can trust in Santa Cruz,\u201d she says. \u201cBryan is cheating on me.\u201d This news does not surprise me. The fact that I am the only one she can trust shocks me. \u201cI\u2019m so sorry,\u201d I say. I don\u2019t tell her that I suspected as much when I saw Bryan constantly texting during one of Cody\u2019s basketball games. There was a certain look of excitement mixed with chagrin that is Bryan\u2019s cheating face. \u201cBut you have lots of friends,\u201d I say. \u201cWhy does your therapist think I\u2019m the only one you can trust?\u201d \u201cBecause you\u2019ve been through this before, you know what I\u2019m going through, you\u2019re the only one who can understand. Besides, my friends here are his friends too.\u201d Darcy is from Boston, so all her real friends are far away. I don\u2019t know what to advise her. \u201cIt\u2019s hard,\u201d I say, \u201cbut you\u2019ll be okay.\u201d This makes her cry harder. I am in no position to be the therapist for my ex-husband\u2019s soon-to-be-ex-wife who I think may have tried to get me sent to prison. \u201cI can\u2019t get out of bed,\u201d she says. \u201cI\u2019m so depressed.\u201d I tune out while she sets forth the gory details of Bryan\u2019s affair. It\u2019s not my business, and I\u2019m no scientist, but I bet the research shows that when you marry a cheater, there\u2019s a good chance he\u2019s going to cheat on you. As a woman, I feel for her. As a person once married to her husband, I feel for her. A petty part of me clutches a bit of schadenfreude, but I set that aside. \u201cTry to sleep,\u201d I say. \u201cI\u2019ll call you this weekend.\u201d The next day I talk to Ty, who tells me she won\u2019t get out of bed. On Sunday, I call her. It\u2019s Mother\u2019s Day, which is a tough day for her anyway because she couldn\u2019t bear children of her own. She doesn\u2019t answer. I call Ty again; he says his dad is out, and Darcy is still in bed. I pack up Kaden and we make the short drive over to their house. I park Kaden with Ty, walk upstairs to her bedroom, and knock. A weak voice says, \u201cCome in.\u201d She is sitting up in bed. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. I quickly take in a pile of pill bottles and crumpled tissues on the nightstand. She looks like shit. \u201cHow are you?\u201d I ask. \u201cI brought you something.\u201d I hold out a coffee cup to her. \u201cIt\u2019s a mocha.\u201d \u201cThanks,\u201d she says. \u201cHappy Mother\u2019s Day.\u201d She starts to cry again, and I sit on the bed next to her with my own coffee. \u201cLook, I know it seems like the world is ending, but you can\u2019t just stay in bed. Ty said you\u2019ve been in here for a couple of days.\u201d \u201cI can\u2019t get up,\u201d she says. She sounds groggy, and I try to read the labels on her pill bottles without being obvious about it. \u201cIt\u2019s a beautiful day,\u201d I say. \u201cLet\u2019s go for a walk on the beach.\u201d She looks at me blankly, and I\u2019m surprised at my suggestion as well. I was just going to hand her a coffee and then slip out. But she\u2019s a mess. I was a mess too. Like recognizes like. \u201cCome on,\u201d I say, \u201cit\u2019ll be fun. It\u2019s beautiful outside.\u201d It\u2019s actually kind of cold and foggy but now is not the time for the truth. I stand up from the bed and hold out my hand. \u201cLet\u2019s go,\u201d I say. \u201cLet\u2019s just go for a walk. And Kaden\u2019s downstairs; he really wanted to wish you a Happy Mother\u2019s Day.\u201d That\u2019s another lie, but I\u2019m desperate enough to throw Kaden under this bus. I had to bribe him with the promise of Legos to get him to come with me. Darcy reaches for my hand. I want to feel the compassion I\u2019m faking, and when she stands up and stumbles a little, I suddenly do. I don\u2019t want to be a woman who kicks another woman when she\u2019s down. I want to be better than she was to me so she can be better than she was to me. Kaden doesn\u2019t want to walk with us, so we make our way to the beach alone. Darcy stops every few houses to tell me a Bryan story from when they first met, when they once took a walk here, when they were once in love. I just listen and hold space for the betrayal she\u2019s feeling. Bryan isn\u2019t a bad guy, and a part of me is surprised he lasted this long with the bitterness that\u2019s simmered between them for years, but I still support her as she complains about the unfairness of it all and repeats everything she already told me over the phone. We have just turned around to head back to the house. She\u2019s vented all there is to vent for now, so we walk in silence, and it\u2019s actually pretty nice. I haven\u2019t walked with a friend on the beach in years. \u201cI met someone,\u201d I offer. I\u2019m still wary of trusting her with personal information, but I want to build a bridge, and this is good gossip. \u201cWhat? Who? Tell me everything!\u201d \u201cHis name is Sam. He\u2019s great, but he\u2019s seven years younger than me, so I don\u2019t know\u2026\u201d \u201cBryan is seven years younger than me\u2026\u201d she says and then falls silent. We both know how that\u2019s turning out. \u201cI hope he\u2019s a nice guy,\u201d says Darcy before she starts crying again. \u201cI hope he is too,\u201d I say as I put my arm around her shoulders. Sam does seem like a nice guy; he drops coffee at my doorstep every morning on his way to work. He has two children from a previous marriage whom he dotes on. Since DJ, I\u2019ve tried dating two other men. The first lied to me about being almost divorced; in fact, he wasn\u2019t even separated. The other also turned out to be a liar, and when I broke it off with him, he threatened to call Probation on me. Both were men I met in recovery meetings who were supposed to be practicing the principles of honesty. I had sworn off dating and relationships forever, but then I saw Sam and he saw me. And I liked the person I was in his eyes. I liked that he seemed to love and adore me, but it was still new, and I hadn\u2019t yet told him much about the life I was struggling to leave behind. I told the boys to make Darcy breakfast before we left. When we return, we both climb into her bed, and the boys carry in our breakfast on matching wooden trays. I think about the boys coming to visit me at Blaine on Mother\u2019s Day. At the time, I was so happy to spend the day with them, I hadn\u2019t realized that my time with them meant Darcy had spent the day alone. But here we were years later, spending Mother\u2019s Day together with all four boys. Sometimes, the path of forgiveness doesn\u2019t look anything like we think it will. Sometimes it looks a lot like runny scrambled eggs and overly buttered sourdough toast. After breakfast, the boys take the trays away and I get up to leave. \u201cYou going to be okay?\u201d I ask. Darcy nods. \u201cYou know,\u201d she says, \u201cI never told you or anyone this, but I\u2019ve had my own struggles\u2026\u201d I think about her anger, her vitriol, her seeming delight at my failure. I think about her leading the mob in the courtroom, and it suddenly all makes sense. Maybe she hated me for all the complicated reasons we hate people who are more like us than we can admit. Or maybe she never hated me at all. Sam comes over later that evening, after Kaden is asleep. His kids are with their mom, and when I open the door he is standing there in his work boots holding a bouquet of flowers and a bunch of carrots. I tell him about my day with Darcy. And then I tell him about my Mother\u2019s Day in jail with the boys, my arrest, my time in jail, the newspaper headline, and Doug googling me. He doesn\u2019t say a word until I\u2019m done. \u201cThanks for telling me all that. I\u2019m sorry you went through it, but I think you\u2019re amazing. Your past doesn\u2019t matter to me.\u201d \u201cWhy?\u201d \u201cI only care about who you are now. And I can promise you one thing, I will never google you. I don\u2019t need to.\u201d How could I not fall in love with a man who refused to google me? A few weeks later, Darcy, Bryan, and I stand awkwardly together for pictures at Ty\u2019s high school graduation. At the dinner that night, Darcy gets drunk, and the tension between them overshadows the celebration. I yell at her for making the night about her rather than Ty, and then I immediately apologize. That dinner is the last time I see Darcy before she and Bryan officially separate and she moves back to Boston. I send her love and light and wish her well. I don\u2019t know what next year\u2019s Mother\u2019s Day will bring. I know I will gladly share my Mother\u2019s Day with the women in jail, with Darcy in her bed, and with whoever comes after her as stepmother to my children. I forgive Darcy and I hope she forgives me. \n chapter 18 A BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD Idea Architects has outgrown Doug\u2019s home office, so we relocate across the county and I move out of my chair and into a real desk. I am writing a book with a neurosurgeon, so early every Friday morning I drive to Silicon Valley and meet him at his office before he goes into surgery. On one Friday morning I accompany him to the hospital and change into scrubs so I can be in the operating room while he performs brain surgery. I ask him if I can keep the scrubs and when he says yes, I wear them often over the next two months while I work with him on the book. In the middle of this new book I\u2019m under deadline for, Sam and I decide to move in together and Doug rents us his house while he moves to a house closer to our new office. Neither Sam nor I want to get married again. Sam\u2019s only been married once, but I\u2019ve been married twice, and I don\u2019t think I have a third time in me. I\u2019m not Elizabeth Taylor. Although secretly a part of me at least wants Sam to want to marry me, plus I am curious about what it would be like to be married for ten years, twenty years, thirty years. But a larger part of me doubts I have it in me to stay married that long. I have never made it to five years before, so maybe I am Elizabeth Taylor. Kaden and I carefully pack up all his Legos and drive behind the U-Haul to our new home. It\u2019s a big change from our four-hundred-square-foot apartment, and I\u2019m excited and nervous. The new home is in a nice neighborhood and near the elementary school that Kaden and Sam\u2019s son, Chase, will attend. They are only a year and a half apart, and for the two years that Sam and I have been dating, they\u2019ve acted like they were at a slumber party whenever they were together. I hope that rapport will continue now that they\u2019re sharing a room. I am grateful he will now have siblings close to his age and a house full of company, instead of just me and my hypervigilance. Sam\u2019s daughter, Dahlia, will have her own room, and the house has an extra guest room for Dylan, Cody, and Ty to stay in when they want to. It\u2019s taken five years, but I finally have a home that can hold all my children. They\u2019re all out of high school now and Ty will be off to college soon after traveling post\u2013high school, but we\u2019ll have the holidays together. I love being a day-to-day mom again. I love setting the table for dinner, watching a movie together. When I have to sweep the floors and do the dishes I tell myself to be grateful I am doing these things in my own home and not in Blaine Street. Work keeps me busy, and I often pull one all-nighter a week just to keep up. But apart from the occasional brain surgery with an author, I feel like I have finally found the nice, conventional life I have longed for since my arrest. I didn\u2019t appreciate what I had before, so now I relish the domesticity of it all. The comfort, the security, the neighbors who wave to me when I drive by. Ty, Kaden, and I pick up take-out dinner a few days after we move in. It\u2019s a celebration, and we\u2019re in high spirits. I have just made the turn off the freeway at our exit when flashing blue and red lights appear behind us. I quickly pull into a parking lot. I know I\u2019ve done nothing wrong, but the terror is instantaneous. My body remembers my arrest, even if my mind knows not to worry. Ty seems unconcerned, and I glance over my shoulder at Kaden in the back seat. He is staring out the window. \u201cIt will be fine,\u201d I say. Ty moves to take his seat belt off, but I tell him to leave it on. Because we are in an unincorporated part of the county, a sheriff\u2019s deputy has pulled me over. I am grateful I don\u2019t recognize the deputy when he walks up to my window. I am grateful it isn\u2019t one of the two who arrested me, or one of the deputies who works in the jail. I remind myself that I am just a mom driving home from picking up takeout with her children. He shines his flashlight at the boys, and then stands next to my rolled-down window without saying a word. \u201cHi?\u201d I say, waiting to see why he pulled me over. \u201cYou have a taillight out,\u201d he says. \u201cOh no, I didn\u2019t realize\u2026\u201d \u201cCould I see your driver\u2019s license and insurance?\u201d I dig my license out of my bag and ask Ty to get the registration from the glove box. The deputy shines his flashlight in Ty\u2019s face again. \u201cIs this your son?\u201d \u201cYes,\u201d I say. Ty gives him a fake smile. Kaden hasn\u2019t said a word. He takes my license and registration and walks back to his car. A second deputy I hadn\u2019t noticed before stands behind my car. \u201cIt will just be a fix-it ticket,\u201d I say. \u201cNo big deal.\u201d Kaden is staring down at his lap. \u201cYou okay, baby guy?\u201d I ask. \u201cThere\u2019s nothing to worry about.\u201d I wonder if he\u2019s thinking about the last time he saw me with the police when I told him everything would be okay. Our dinner is getting cold. We\u2019ve been sitting in the car for close to twenty minutes, and the two deputies are outside the car talking when suddenly five more sheriff\u2019s cars pull into the parking lot, their sirens blaring and lights flashing. Two of them pull in front of our car, blocking our way forward. The other three line up behind and around the car that pulled us over. Two officers get out of each car and stand at the back of my car. Ty is starting to look nervous now, and Kaden still hasn\u2019t uttered a word. The deputy comes back to the window. \u201cYou\u2019re on probation. You don\u2019t have any violations, but we\u2019ve called your probation officer.\u201d \u201cFor a burned-out light?\u201d The only reason I\u2019m still on probation is the fact that I haven\u2019t been able to pay the remainder of the restitution back yet. \u201cWe have the right to search you and your car, but we\u2019re waiting to hear back from your probation officer.\u201d \u201cYou can search my car,\u201d I say. \u201cWhat?\u201d \u201cI\u2019m fine if you search my car, you don\u2019t have to wait for him to call back.\u201d The deputy seems surprised at this. He walks back to confer with the other ten officers who have assembled to deal with our broken light. Another deputy walks up to the car and asks us to get out. Ty opens Kaden\u2019s door and I grab the bag of Chipotle so at least we can eat. \u201cLeave everything in the car!\u201d Apparently they need to search our dinner. Ty, Kaden, and I sit on a curb in the flashing lights while they pull everything out of the glove box and the trunk. My backpack gets dumped on the hood of the car while three deputies shine their flashlights under the seats, between the seats, across the dash, and inside the car doors. I am scared and embarrassed, but mostly I\u2019m worried about Kaden. He has climbed into my lap and buried his ten-year-old face in my neck. He is shivering even though the night is warm. I rub his back. \u201cIt\u2019s okay, Boodle,\u201d says Ty, using his favorite nickname for his little brother. After another twenty minutes, the original deputy walks up and hands me my documents along with a fix-it ticket for the light. \u201cYou know we could impound it for the broken light.\u201d I don\u2019t reply and he looks at me like he\u2019s waiting for me to thank him. But I feel no gratitude and say nothing. I feel only anger at this man, and all his buddies, and the system he represents that could ruin my happy, hard-won life over a five-dollar taillight. \u201cYour probation officer said you\u2019re good to go. That\u2019s quite a record you have.\u201d I don\u2019t have to check in with Probation anymore; I just file a monthly report online. So I\u2019d almost forgotten that I can still be sent back to jail for anything at any time. I had thought about homeschooling Kaden earlier in the year but found out I can\u2019t because I have a record. I am ghostwriting a book for two Stanford professors, but I can\u2019t homeschool my son. We gather up all our stuff and put the car back together as quickly as possible after the deputies leave. The sirens, the flashing lights, the six sheriff\u2019s cars\u2014it all feels like intentional overkill. Do I look that dangerous sitting in a car with my two children and a bag of Chipotle? They knew when they looked me up that I had never violated probation for five years, but still they acted as if I had just robbed a bank and was driving the getaway car. \u201cLet\u2019s just order pizza,\u201d I say as we head home. When I tell Sam what happened, he\u2019s angry with the police on my behalf. I try to explain to him how scared I am every day that people will find out about my past, but he doesn\u2019t get it. \u201cWho cares?\u201d he asks. \u201cWhy does it even matter?\u201d He has never been arrested, never gone to jail, and he can\u2019t seem to understand the terror that lives right under the surface of my happy life. I can\u2019t sleep that night. At 2 a.m. I get out of bed and decide to check my email. There\u2019s a note from Doug saying our next-door neighbors are upset with him for renting to me without talking to them first. A friend of another neighbor, someone I know from recovery meetings, gossiped about me, and now all the neighbors know the neighbor from hell has moved next door. \u201cLet\u2019s discuss in the morning,\u201d writes Doug. \u201cBut I told them I\u2019m free to meet on Saturday.\u201d When Sam gets up for work at five, I am sitting at the kitchen table. \u201cWhat\u2019s up?\u201d he asks. \u201cBobby told the neighbors across the street about my past and he told another neighbor who told another neighbor. And now Zack and Karen are upset and want a meeting to discuss it with us and Doug.\u201d I start to cry. I should have stayed in my little apartment with Kaden. \u201cWe don\u2019t have to defend where we live to anyone.\u201d \u201cDoug wants us to all sit down and talk.\u201d \u201cNo way,\u201d says Sam. \u201cFuck the neighbors. You\u2019ve been in this neighborhood, this house, all day every day for years working with Doug, and they haven\u2019t had a problem.\u201d \u201cUntil Bobby made sure they knew my past.\u201d \u201cFucking Bobby,\u201d says Sam. \u201cIsn\u2019t he supposed to keep things anonymous?\u201d I just shrug. \u201cWill you go to the meeting with me and Doug?\u201d I ask. \u201cOn Saturday?\u201d Sam is quiet for a moment, and then he says no. In a way I\u2019m relieved. I don\u2019t want him to witness my humiliation. \u201cI disagree with the need to meet on principle, and there\u2019s no way I\u2019m going to give them the satisfaction. You do not have to defend your past. Besides, I have to work on Saturday.\u201d I\u2019ve never been able to make Sam understand the burden I carry. Going to jail, the newspaper headline, probation\u2014it\u2019s all a secret I keep from everyone I know except him and Doug and my family. In Sam\u2019s mind, the past is past; it has no bearing on our present or future. I appreciate this Tolle-level detachment, but it also makes me feel alone as I face my next hurdle. The prospect of this meeting makes me fearful and nervous. Doug shows up at the house full of his usual energy and goodwill. Zack and Karen have set out a fruit plate, and we sit awkwardly at their kitchen table. \u201cLisa and Will didn\u2019t want to come to the meeting,\u201d they say, referring to the neighbors across the street who spread the gossip. \u201cWill objects to it. He says you can live where you want to live, and it\u2019s not our business. Obviously, we understand his point but disagree that it\u2019s not our business. Doug, you should have told us before you rented the house.\u201d Doug smiles. \u201cWell, actually I didn\u2019t need to do that. And you\u2019ve known Lara for years now. It never crossed my mind to tell you. We trust Lara with our home, our business. Besides marrying my wife, the best thing I\u2019ve ever done is hire Lara.\u201d My eyes fill with tears. Karen and Zack nod in some kind of agreement with Doug\u2019s sentiment, but they still ask to hear my story. I tell them I have many years in recovery but go silent after that. I don\u2019t know what to say. I am suddenly exhausted, and I realize Sam is right, I don\u2019t need to defend myself. I shouldn\u2019t have to defend myself. Doug steps in and tells them I committed identity theft and went to jail but how responsible I am now. \u201cGiven my job, you can understand my concern,\u201d says Zack. I don\u2019t know what he does for a living, and Doug seems to have forgotten as well. We both look at him, puzzled. \u201cI do cybersecurity,\u201d he says. \u201cObviously, identity theft is a big part of what I fight every day.\u201d I\u2019m not going to steal his identity. I\u2019m too busy working at my job assuming the identities of our authors and writing their books. \u201cYou have my word,\u201d says Doug. \u201cThere will be no problems whatsoever\u2014Lara is a perfect neighbor.\u201d Karen and Zack seem dubious but say okay, as if they are being magnanimous in letting me live where I live. Before we leave, they both backtrack on the whole meeting and remind us of how committed they are to social justice issues. I tune them out. I want to go to my new home in my new neighborhood and cry. We say our goodbyes, and Doug emails me the next morning: How are you \u201cthe morning after\u2026\u201d? Hope you are still feeling that the meeting went as well as I did. I hope you will feel at home in the new neighborhood, and I do feel that going through experiences like this and the kind of honesty everyone shared yesterday deepens relationships significantly. I send a smiley face emoji back, but as I walk Kaden to school on Monday the neighborhood doesn\u2019t look as shiny and hopeful as it did the week before. Not long after, Sam and I are sitting in the backyard enjoying a Saturday night at home without the kids. Dylan, Cody, and Ty have taken Kaden on a road trip to Oregon for the week. It\u2019s a rare summer night without fog, and I feel content. It\u2019s a feeling I\u2019m still not a hundred percent comfortable with but I\u2019m trying. Sam starts to say something and then stops. He seems nervous, and my contentment leaves as I brace myself for whatever shoe is about to drop. \u201cWhat?\u201d I ask. \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d \u201cNothing\u2019s wrong.\u201d I wait him out, thinking suddenly that he\u2019s about to break up with me. I start to ponder how I\u2019m going to pay the rent myself, and vow never to get in a relationship again. In an instant, I play out our entire breakup and I\u2019m surprised at how much it hurts, how much I really do love him. \u201cWill you marry me?\u201d \u201cYou want to marry me?\u201d I ask. \u201cYou want to get married?\u201d \u201cI do.\u201d \u201cBut why? You said you never wanted to get married again.\u201d \u201cI want to marry you, I love you, can you please just answer the question?\u201d Sam is laughing now. \u201cI want to marry you, too, so yes, the answer is yes!\u201d Sam howls at the night sky. I jump up and throw my arms around him. We kiss, and he howls again, and I don\u2019t care about the neighbors next door and what they\u2019ll think, or how I\u2019ve failed at marriage in the past. All I know is that I love him and he loves me, and it feels so good to feel chosen. We make plans to get married the following June and spend the fall and winter planning a big wedding. One night in March, as we\u2019re about to go to sleep, I tell him I can\u2019t see our wedding. \u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d \u201cI mean, I know we\u2019re making these plans, but I don\u2019t see it. I don\u2019t see us at this big wedding, and you know how I am\u2026 If I can\u2019t see something happening it never happens.\u201d Sam is quiet for a moment. \u201cPlus, I hate the word venue,\u201d I add. \u201cIf someone asks about our \u2018venue\u2019 one more time, I\u2019m going to lose it on them. It\u2019s a horrible, horrible word.\u201d \u201cDo you want to marry me still?\u201d \u201cOf course,\u201d I say. \u201cWhat if we elope?\u201d We already have a wedding party, and people helping us plan the wedding, and Sam\u2019s parents would be devastated. Plus, I want the boys at our wedding. Eloping seems impossible. Sam sits up in bed. \u201cLet\u2019s just do it. The day after tomorrow. We\u2019ll take a long weekend. Just us. We can do a party later with the family.\u201d It feels so wrong, but also so right. Planning a wedding in a day feels way easier to me than planning a wedding over a year. We try to sneak off, but twenty-one people, including Dylan, Cody, Ty, and Sam\u2019s parents, decide to elope with us on a day\u2019s notice. It\u2019s crazy and chaotic and fun and perfect. On our wedding night Sam and I stand at the window of our hotel room looking out at the lights of Reno, Nevada. \u201cI hope you know how special this is,\u201d I say. \u201cOf course I know. I love you, Mrs. Lara Love Hardin.\u201d \u201cNo,\u201d I say. \u201cThis is the first time I\u2019ve gotten married without getting pregnant first. This is a big moment in a girl\u2019s life.\u201d Sam looks at me in silence for a moment, and then we both laugh. I have begun a marriage with laughter, and I take this as a good omen. \n chapter 19 THE DALAI LAMA HATES ME Doug decides to sell his house, and Sam and I find a rental home a few blocks from where I used to live with Kaden. It\u2019s hard to find a place to rent that has enough room to fit all the kids, takes a dog, and doesn\u2019t require a criminal background check. I barely have time to unpack in our new place before I\u2019m on my way to India to work on The Book of Joy with Doug, Archbishop Tutu, the Dalai Lama, and other members of our growing company. We have moved into even bigger offices, and I was excited for the business trip of a lifetime. No one else at our company knows about my past. None of the many authors I have written books with know about my past. I keep my secret and pray daily that our authors don\u2019t find out. I am constantly worried that if people know, it will hurt our reputation as a literary agency and that will somehow torpedo the business. Maybe I am overreacting, but I don\u2019t want to find out. Mostly I am just constantly ashamed, and I also don\u2019t want people to see me through the lens of being a felon. Am I smart, or am I just smart for a criminal? Am I a good writer, or am I a good writer for someone who was an addict? I also manage the company\u2019s money, and I don\u2019t want my honesty and integrity to be questioned. Yes, I keep the secret to protect the business, but I also keep it to protect myself. Two of the books I have cowritten had become New York Times bestsellers\u2014I am Idea Architects\u2019 secret weapon, and I guard my secret past like I used to guard my drug addiction. Secrets are a lonely place to live, though, and I can\u2019t imagine making new friends. There are too many gaps in my life story that don\u2019t lend themselves to long, getting-to-know-you talks. I don\u2019t want to feel like I am lying to anyone, even by omission. And I am too ashamed to think about telling the truth. I can\u2019t face the horror I imagine crossing the faces of people who might find out my secret. I worry about people judging me because I am constantly in judgment of myself. I work on a book where the authors cite research that shows how having close female friends is a huge predictor of a woman\u2019s health and longevity. The more female friends a woman has, the better. My takeaway from this is that lonely old me is going to suffer a miserable early death if I don\u2019t make some friends, but I am afraid to try. So I work day and night to clear my karma, and prove that I am good because I do good work. I\u2019m not really worried about being judged in any afterlife, just in the one I am living. I\u2019m still on probation because I haven\u2019t paid the restitution back in full. I apply for my passport and my visa, not knowing if they\u2019ll get approved. I do research on whether foreign governments do background checks on visa applicants; some do and some don\u2019t. My visa for the trip to India is denied at first. I had written \u201cWriter\u201d as my profession, so I reapply and change my profession to \u201cSecretary\u201d and it gets approved. I don\u2019t have time for feminist outrage because the logistics of bringing an entire team to the Dalai Lama\u2019s house are all-consuming. I am excited and nervous but mostly excited. I reach out to a friend from my early soccer-mom days who is a devout Buddhist and follower of the Dalai Lama. Over tea, she gives me a crash course on how to behave with monks. \u201cYou\u2019re a woman, so they won\u2019t shake your hand or touch you,\u201d she says. \u201cThat just makes me want to shake their hands so I can pull them into the twenty-first century.\u201d \u201cPlease don\u2019t.\u201d \u201cHis Holiness sees everything,\u201d she says. \u201cHe has this way of knowing you because he can look right into your soul. Listen carefully when he speaks. He will tell you exactly what you most need to hear.\u201d I don\u2019t like the idea of the Dalai Lama mucking around in my soul, rummaging around like a girlfriend going through her boyfriend\u2019s drawers when he\u2019s not home. Mostly I\u2019m afraid of what he might see in there. I worry that he will blow my cover. \u201cIt\u2019s really special that you get to do this,\u201d says my old friend, Kate. \u201cUsually it takes a lot of merit to have an opportunity like this.\u201d I shrug, unsure how to address my merit or lack thereof. \u201cWell, it\u2019s my job, and I know it\u2019s an amazing opportunity,\u201d I say eventually. \u201cHmmm\u2026\u201d says Kate, looking at me suspiciously like I\u2019m passing counterfeit merit. We talk about the travel and what India is like, and Kate shares her stories from Dharamsala and elsewhere. Her work as an educator is based on the Dalai Lama\u2019s vision for children. I haven\u2019t seen her since my older boys were in a Buddhist preschool with her kids. At the time, we were part of a close-knit group of moms. I\u2019m grateful to her for giving me so much of her time and expertise after all those years. At the end of our tea, Kate tells me that most of our old friend group is coming over for a game night at her house. I get excited at the thought of seeing my former best friends. And I love game nights. I realize how much I miss having friends\u2014how much I miss this group of friends in particular and being in a large group of women in general. It\u2019s the one thing I miss about jail. \u201cThey\u2019ll be here soon,\u201d Kate says. I nod enthusiastically and give her a big smile. She stands and picks up our teacups. \u201cSo you\u2019ll probably want to get going now. I can\u2019t believe it\u2019s gotten so late.\u201d \u201cOh, of course.\u201d My face flushes, and I hug her awkwardly. \u201cOne more thing,\u201d she says. \u201cYeah?\u201d \u201cDid you ever steal Pali\u2019s traveler\u2019s checks?\u201d Pali is her daughter. \u201cN\u2026 n\u2026 o,\u201d I stammer. \u201cOkay, then,\u201d she says. In the days leading up to the trip, I alternate between worrying about my merit, which I learn is another word for karma, and what the Dalai Lama might see when he looks in my soul. When I\u2019m not worrying about my soul, I also fantasize that when he meets me for the first time he will instantly recognize me as special. He will see me as good. Or he will see me as bad. My fantasy life is very flexible. Andrew, my colleague, and I are flying business class to India and I\u2019m terrified. As he orders champagne, I imagine being arrested or turned back. I\u2019m afraid of what will happen when I show my passport to enter the country. Will the system light up with bells and sirens? I\u2019ve gotten permission from Probation to leave the country, but I haven\u2019t gotten permission from India to enter as a person on probation. Andrew doesn\u2019t know that he\u2019s traveling with a felon, and probably wouldn\u2019t care if I told him, given how much champagne he\u2019s had, but my anxiety gets worse as we proceed across the Pacific. When we stop to change planes in Hong Kong, I have my first true flash of excitement. Even if I get turned around in India, I am now someone who changes planes in Hong Kong, and that feels like a win for the women in G. We are meeting up with a film crew in New Delhi and going early to set up for the dialogue between Archbishop Tutu and the Dalai Lama. Doug will be interviewing them along with Thupten Jinpa, the Dalai Lama\u2019s longtime translator, and all will be filmed and transcribed into content for the book Doug will write with them and possibly for a film. My job includes all things logistical: scouting with the film crew, coordinating hotels and guests, making sure everything goes as planned, reviewing the questions Doug is going to ask each day, and general crisis management for the entire team. So far, I am the only one in crisis. The ultimate goal is to take the outline Doug and I created with Jinpa and get enough content during the week to fill a book. When we land in Hong Kong for our connecting flight there are two flight agents outside the gate holding signs with my name and Andrew\u2019s on them. I panic and turn back to reboard the plane. \u201cMs. Love?\u201d I turn around slowly and nod. \u201cWe have rerouted you to New Delhi. The headwinds caused you to miss your connection so now you will travel to Bangalore, go through immigration, and then transfer to another flight to New Delhi. Follow us, please.\u201d While Andrew snores, I spend the flight from Hong Kong to Bangalore wondering what prison is like in India. When we land, the immigration line moves quickly, and my throat goes dry when the officer asks me the purpose of my visit. \u201cWork,\u201d I squeak out. I can see him noticing my nerves, but he shrugs and stamps my passport. When the time comes for me to meet the Dalai Lama, I prepare my mind with only good thoughts so he doesn\u2019t go looking into the corners of my dark past. My heart is pounding as he makes his way along a reception line of sorts. I am so ready for my big moment, for him to gaze into my eyes and clear the room so we can talk. When he gets to me, he glances at me and nods slightly. And that\u2019s it. That night I join Doug and Archbishop Tutu and some dignitaries for dinner in Dharamsala. I sit next to this man who I wrote about in middle school, and as we share delicious Tibetan dumplings called momos he thanks me for the work I did on The Book of Forgiving. Doug takes a picture of us sitting together, and later that night he texts it to me. In the photo Archbishop Tutu and I are holding hands and looking into each other\u2019s eyes. Doug has caught us in the middle of laughing about something. I lay in bed too excited for the week ahead to sleep, and I look at myself in the picture. I look like the shiny, happy person I have always wanted to be. Only this time I\u2019m not pretending. The joy on my face is real. The dialogues go off without a hitch. His Holiness invites us to meditate with him in his private residence. It\u2019s an honor to be part of the entourage in his sacred space, and as I sit to his left on the floor and join him in his morning meditation in front of his personal shrine, I feel like I am levitating. Look at me now, Eckhart Tolle. As we sit, my eyes meet Doug\u2019s. We stare at each other for a moment, and he gives me a smile. He knows how far this room in Dharamsala is from where I\u2019ve been. I tear up and smile back. I am overcome with gratitude, for Doug, for Archbishop Tutu, for the Dalai Lama, for the strange life that has taken me from G block to this holy space. I did not hustle or cheat or defraud my way into this room\u2014I was invited and welcomed. What if this is my merit? I roll the idea around in my head and when Archbishop Tutu leads us in prayer and offers me the Eucharist, I take it. When he bows his head to me and murmurs a blessing, I bow my head, too, and think about the times I prayed in jail. On the floor of the holding room the night of my arrest when I prayed for help, and with the chaplain when I prayed to never do drugs again and to know my path and purpose. Here, with the Eucharist melting on my tongue, my prayer is simple: thank you. I still spend the rest of the week convinced that the most compassionate man in the world doesn\u2019t like me, because he never singles me out for attention like he does other members of the crew. Either he hates me, I decide, or maybe he is teaching me a bigger lesson. There is the old part of me that is sure that he hates me, but the new part of me, the part that grows with every book I work on and every difficult moment I face, thinks it must be a lesson. I am just one of seven billion people living their lives. Making big mistakes over and over. Growing and shrinking and growing again. In the evenings I walk around the temple grounds, monkeys chattering in the trees, and the lesson becomes clear: It\u2019s easier for me to think the Dalai Lama doesn\u2019t like me than to face the fact that deep down, despite where I am and who I\u2019m with, I\u2019m still not sure if I like myself. Spending a week listening to Archbishop Tutu and the Dalai Lama alternate between teasing each other for not acting holy enough, and then crying over the profound suffering that is the human experience, changes me. Every day I walk away with some new nugget about the way I want to live my life\u2014in service to others, accepting that I am always a work in progress, being more compassionate and more forgiving. Living in gratitude. Every day of the dialogues seems like a horoscope\u2014there\u2019s something specific relating to my life that I need to hear. The two holy men see the possibility of joy in every hard moment, and I want to live like that. They listen to each other deeply, and reach out to hold the other\u2019s hand when someone tells a difficult story from their life. His Holiness is curious about everyone filming them: the photographer\u2019s red hair, the sound guy\u2019s tattoos, the cameraman\u2019s beard. Even though it\u2019s a joke, when the Dalai Lama says he would rather go to hell than heaven because there are more people to help in hell, I start to cry. They pause midway through each morning so everyone can stop work and drink tea together. The tea isn\u2019t great, but the communal pause feels like another profound lesson. These men, who have both carried the fate of countries on their backs, have a lightness I crave. They teach me not to take myself too seriously. When His Holiness says all people are equal, no one is higher up or better than another, I feel like he is saying this just to me. Each night, after my walk, I go to my hotel room in Dharamsala in the shadow of His Holiness\u2019s temple, and I write down what I saw and how I felt and who I still want to become. On our last day we do a photo shoot with Archbishop Tutu and His Holiness. Miranda, the photographer, clicks away as, one by one, members of the team receive a special khata, a blessed Tibetan scarf from the Dalai Lama, and pose for pictures. When it\u2019s my turn, I am nervous to be standing between these two men, and a bit flustered. My security badge is tangled up with my khata and both are tangled in my hair. His Holiness takes my hand, and our eyes meet. His hands are softer than any skin I have ever felt before, softer than any baby I have ever held. Then he holds his hand up to Miranda to stop the shoot. This is it, I think, this is my moment. He has seen my soul. I hold my breath to see what will happen next, and he starts fussing with my hair. Untangling the khata and the security badge and freeing my hair. Smoothing it down, putting me back together again. Miranda takes photos of it all, and I know I will look at them on the nights when the world questions my merit. When I question my merit. Standing between these two spiritual leaders, it suddenly doesn\u2019t matter what people think of me. I am standing in the light, at a temple, in service to something bigger than my insecurities and flaws. Bigger than my past and my mistakes. Before I walk away, each man holds one of my hands and I tell them both, \u201cThank you. You have changed my life.\u201d When I turn to leave, His Holiness grabs my hands again and slowly bows and touches his forehead to mine. I close my eyes, and we stay that way for a few seconds, or maybe a lifetime. \n chapter 20 MANY LIVES Doug spends the next year writing The Book of Joy based on the dialogues in Dharamsala, and I work on a relationship book about the eight conversations you should have before you marry someone. I never had any of these conversations before any of my marriages. I am also writing a book called Designing Your Life that publishes on the same day as The Book of Joy. Both books hit the New York Times bestseller list. I am ecstatic and proud, and all the hard work and sleepless nights feel worth it. Each literary accolade is like money in the bank to me. A savings account I use as leverage against other parts of my life that are not as successful. I am still on probation even though it should have ended two years ago. To get me off probation, Elizabeth and I go back to court. She argues with Probation, saying that I had gone above and beyond during my incarceration and on probation and I should be let off and allowed to pay my restitution as I can over time without the threat of going back to jail hanging over my head. She tells the judge that Designing Your Life is number one on the New York Times list. I think she is trying to show I have a valid job and also prove I\u2019m a valuable member of society now and will not walk away from my debt. The judge does not seem that impressed. I hate sitting on the bench outside the courtroom waiting for the judge\u2019s ruling. I feel automatically guilty. I can taste jail in my mouth\u2014rusted metal and locked doors and the bitterness of isolation. Before I was locked up, freedom used to feel like a vague, blurry concept and a given privilege, about as easy to pin down as wind. Now I understand freedom in the way you can only understand something when it\u2019s gone. Even out of jail, as long as I\u2019m on probation, I\u2019m still not free. The judge gives me the choice to either stay on probation until restitution is completely paid or make my restitution payments to a county collection agency and get off probation. The judge wants to make sure I understand that the latter option will ruin my credit. Elizabeth starts to argue, but the judge stops her. She looks at me and shrugs. There\u2019s just no way they are going to let me off probation without some penalty hanging over me. The choice is roughly equivalent to declaring bankruptcy, and it will keep my credit rating abysmally low for seven years. Choosing between two bad choices is never easy, but I choose door number two. Bad credit seems better than living while holding your breath. Probation has turned my one-year sentence into a seven-year sentence, and now I have to add another seven years of bad credit. But I take this trade-off in order to sleep in peace. The irony is that probation was originally invented as an alternative to incarceration. In the mid-1800s a man in Boston convinced a judge to let him keep another drunken man in his care so he could rehabilitate him before sentencing. When the State of New York introduced probation in the early 1900s, one of the magistrate\u2019s arguments for creating a probation system was that it could be \u201cpunishment without disgrace, and effective without producing embitterment, resentment or demoralization.\u201d Disgrace, embitterment, resentment, and demoralization is just another Monday in the modern world of probation. And if it was hard for me to navigate all the conflicting requirements and illogical bureaucracy as a white, educated woman with some social support, how difficult was it for others without the same sort of opportunities and privilege? Late at night I sometimes read through the jail arrest logs, so I know when Kiki is back in, and the same for Spider, Vivian, and Nina. The only women I don\u2019t see rearrested are the ones who went off to prison. I send care packages to them through the commissary\u2014chocolate bars and bear claws and ramen. I know the money should go to paying back my own restitution, but this is a different kind of restitution. These strangers saved my life and lifted me up with their friendship when I was at my lowest. I owe them. Meeting the Dalai Lama and Archbishop Tutu and all the other authors I get to interact with every day makes me feel valuable, but so did these women. The difference is, I could be honest with these women. Living a covert life, whether for good or bad, takes its toll. If I am only as sick as my secrets, well then, I am in hospice. And I have had enough. Not enough to tell my secrets, but enough that I have decided I need to move away from this place I have lived for the last twenty-five years. I\u2019m going to work my ass off and save enough money to pay my restitution and move far away. I want to go live in Hawaii, on an island thousands of miles away from this community where I no longer belong. I tell Doug this stretch goal. \u201cI need to save up enough money\u2014Kaden graduates in 2023 and then when he goes off to college I\u2019m going to move to Hawaii. I can work remotely.\u201d \u201cIs that what you really want to do?\u201d \u201cYes. I want to build a big family compound for all my boys\u2014a place where they can come home to, a place where if they have families one day they can bring them. And when I die it will be theirs to share and create memories in. \u201cI\u2019m tired of running away from things,\u201d I say. \u201cI want to run toward something. And that something is Hawaii.\u201d \u201cSo, if I\u2019m understanding you correctly, you want to run to Hawaii?\u201d I laugh. \u201cYes, exactly. Someday I\u2019m going to run all the way to Hawaii.\u201d \u201cIf that\u2019s what you want, then I support you in doing that, and you have job security for life. I want us to work together until we are a hundred years old. We are peanut butter and jelly. Lennon and McCartney,\u201d he says. \u201cRide or die,\u201d I reply. I\u2019m trying to make Doug more \u201cstreet\u201d and he flashes me a sideways peace sign in response that makes me laugh. With every new book I write I get to be a different person, live a different life. I want that same freedom in my real life. I hope I can find it in Hawaii, and I hope I can bear the weight of my secrets until I get there. \u201cLara, will you tell Bryan about your past?\u201d Doug asks. I choke on my scrambled eggs and take a sip of water. The number one rule of fight club is I don\u2019t tell our authors about my past. Doug is to my right at the small table in a hotel restaurant in Montgomery, Alabama, across from the offices of the Equal Justice Initiative. Bryan Stevenson, one of the country\u2019s leading social justice activists and lawyers, and one of the authors we represent, sits across the table, and we\u2019re catching up and having a nice breakfast before meeting Anthony Ray Hinton for the first time. Hinton had spent thirty years on Alabama\u2019s death row for a crime he didn\u2019t commit. We flew to Alabama at Bryan\u2019s request, to meet Mr. Hinton and potentially help him with his book. I want desperately to be his cowriter. I take a deep breath. Montgomery\u2019s air is humid, thick with its history of slavery and oppression and the fight for civil rights. I wasn\u2019t prepared to talk about my crimes, my incarceration, my shame, and my work with others in recovery and incarcerated women who are reentering society. But I understand why Doug has asked me to share my story. While almost a year in Santa Cruz County Jail doesn\u2019t compare to thirty years on death row, I know the pain of being alone. I know the sound of a door closing that you have no power to open yourself. I know about being judged. I know Ray before I\u2019ve even met him, and I know that of all the books I\u2019ve worked on, this is the book I was meant to do. And Bryan knows me as a competent member of the literary agency that represents him; he doesn\u2019t know the many lives I have led before this breakfast until I finish my story. He doesn\u2019t judge me. He shows compassion and kindness and understanding and says how relieved he will be to have someone working with Ray who has knowledge of the criminal justice system. And when I meet Ray, we hit it off instantly. He doesn\u2019t trust easily, but he trusts me because I have been locked up. He was innocent, and I was guilty, but we share an understanding of captivity that transcends our differences. We walk side by side behind Bryan and Doug on the sidewalks of Montgomery. \u201cHow much time did you do?\u201d he asks. \u201cJust a county year,\u201d I say, and he knows the reference. \u201cI\u2019m glad you understand,\u201d he says. \u201cI bet you didn\u2019t think a middle-aged white woman would be helping tell your story.\u201d Ray laughs. \u201cNo, I can\u2019t say that I did, but I\u2019m glad it\u2019s you.\u201d My mother dies a week after I get back from Montgomery. I had moved her to Santa Cruz and taken care of her financially and physically for the past two years while an extremely aggressive form of dementia\u2014Lewy body dementia\u2014changed her into someone unrecognizable. My mother, once so smart and aloof and vain and sad, had become childlike. I had become her mother. And in the last weeks of her life, I had to put aside all our history and be present for her in a way she could never be present for me. Ray, whose mother died while he was on death row, comforts me long distance in my grief. When I say I don\u2019t have the words for grief, for regret, and I worry whether I did the right thing in her last days, he tells me to write about it. \u201cI did,\u201d I say. \u201cI wrote a little each night for the last week of her life.\u201d \u201cRead it to me,\u201d he says. I am embarrassed to read what I have written. It\u2019s a jumble of random thoughts and my attempt to make meaning out of something horrific. I need to work on Ray\u2019s book proposal, but my mother\u2019s death fills me with a feeling of loss that I can\u2019t reconcile with our disconnected relationship. Ray insists it will help me feel better, so I read him what I have written of the past week. Ray is silent for almost a minute after I finish reading. \u201cYou were there for her,\u201d he finally says. \u201cOn death row, you die alone. In prison, you die alone. In prison you can\u2019t be with the ones you love as they are dying. You were there. You weren\u2019t locked up. You took care of her while she passed; be grateful for that.\u201d Ray is right. It is the first of many lessons he will teach me about gratitude and freedom. \u201cI walk every day simply because I can,\u201d he says. \u201cI eat dessert first because I don\u2019t ever want to be too full to enjoy something sweet and delicious. \u201cI stand in the rain because you never know when you won\u2019t be allowed to feel the rain on your skin. I don\u2019t ever worry about the weather.\u201d I listen to him carefully and the week after my mom dies, I write three sample chapters and his entire book proposal in a few days. Doug submits the proposal to editors, and all those interested in publishing Ray\u2019s book meet with Doug and Ray in New York City. I stay home and anxiously wait to hear how it all turns out. Ray gets a fantastic book deal and before we start writing the book, Doug has me listen to all the meetings he recorded in New York about the book so I can hear the different editors\u2019 ideas for the structure of the book. There are lots of great ideas, but I\u2019m most attuned to the line Doug says to every editor in every meeting when they ask who is going to be helping Ray write the book. \u201cDo you know how hard it is to find an MFA who has been incarcerated?\u201d Doug asks every editor after telling them I will be the coauthor. \u201cI didn\u2019t know that about Lara,\u201d says one editor. \u201cHow wonderful\u2026\u201d My biggest secret, my greatest shame, has become a selling point. And that changes everything. Over the next year Ray and I spend lots of time working together on The Sun Does Shine. We mix our pain together, and we pour it on the page, and we become family. He trusts me with his story, and I trust him with mine. I learn so much about hope and gratitude and faith and friendship from Ray, and I pour everything I have in me into his story. When I write about how alone he felt on death row it helps me touch how alone I felt in jail, and some days I am on my office floor crying because through Ray I am able to tap so deeply into grief and loss that I\u2019m not sure who I am crying for or who I am crying as, but it doesn\u2019t matter. Other days I am so full of the goodness of Ray\u2019s soul that the writing comes quickly and lightly. This innocent man who spent thirty years on death row teaches me as much about forgiveness as Archbishop Tutu. They both suffered and they both let it ennoble them rather than embitter them. \u201cI forgive,\u201d Ray says, \u201cbecause I\u2019m not giving the State of Alabama one more second of my life.\u201d I try to adopt this worldview and apply it to myself. Bryan and Ray know about my past, so I bravely tell another author I work with before I work with her, and she doesn\u2019t run away from me screaming. I take these baby steps, and then I pause to see if the world will come crashing down. When it doesn\u2019t, I take a deep breath and contemplate my next step. For my birthday, I decide to try something I\u2019ve always wanted to do but was too terrified to try: improv. I think of myself as an introvert so being unscripted on a stage feels like a nightmare, but there\u2019s an equal part of me that loves to entertain and make people laugh. I show up for a drop-in adult improv class on a Saturday morning. It\u2019s an eclectic mix of ages and personality types, and as nervous and terrified as I am, it is fun. It\u2019s been so long since I played, since I acted silly, since I lived in the moment without carefully scripting all my interactions with others. This tribe of misfits and theater geeks and artists and writers welcomes me warmly. They invite me out to lunch after class. And so every Saturday morning, I put aside work and fear and hypervigilance, and I stand on a stage saying ridiculous things and laughing for two hours. I have found my tribe, my people, and not one of them knows about my past. When improv becomes the gateway drug to a stand-up comedy class, my new tribe comes to watch me perform my routine. Alone on a small stage I say, \u201cSo this one time when I was in prison\u2026\u201d and I do a routine about my felonies and how someone gets a prison nickname and how a woman made a tiny candy shiv out of a Jolly Rancher. Afterward my new friends come up to me and say, \u201cIs that true? Were you in prison with thirty-two felonies?\u201d Because I have learned to be in the moment from improv class, I reply immediately in the time-honored improv style. \u201cYes, and\u2026 it was jail, not prison.\u201d There is silence at first, but before I can even get mortified, my new friend Eileen says, \u201cCool.\u201d The others follow with similar responses, and we all go to lunch where I am not the center of conversation. And my definition of freedom gets bigger. I thought what I craved was approval and praise, but it\u2019s simpler than that. I craved acceptance. For all the different versions of me I have been, and all the many lives I have lived. I am riding the comedy wave with my tribe, and it\u2019s such smooth sailing that when a local Rotary Club asks me to come speak to them about my work, I readily say yes. They don\u2019t mention my past, and I am excited to talk about our literary agency and the impact our books are having in the world. Our team has grown so much that with our foreign rights coagents, staff, and the collaborative writers I have hired and trained, we number close to thirty staff now. Ty is working full time for our company as well, and Cody is creating videos for us, so my success is also their success. The work is nonstop, and I go to the office on a Saturday morning. I am getting a contract out of Doug\u2019s inbox when I see the email. It\u2019s from: one@victimoflaralove.com. I open the email and read: SHAME ON YOU FOR PUTTING THIS VILE PERSON IN CHARGE OF FINANCIAL THINGS. THE COURT HAD BANNED HER FROM BEING IN THAT KIND OF FUNCTION AND YOU ARE BOTH VIOLATING THAT. I WILL BE CONTACTING THE D.A. AND COURTS. The sender has included a link to the Sentinel article\u2014I guess in case Doug didn\u2019t know about my past. The panic attack hits me right away. I can\u2019t control my breathing, and my office seems to have tilted. I want to run but I can\u2019t feel my limbs. All I can think is I\u2019m going back to jail, and so is Doug. I call him, and when he answers I am hysterical and incomprehensible. \u201cSomeone sent you\u2026 in your email\u2026 trouble\u2026 jail\u2026\u201d \u201cTake a breath,\u201d says Doug. \u201cAre you hurt? Are the kids okay? Sam?\u201d \u201cYes, but someone sent an anonymous email.\u201d \u201cWhere are you?\u201d asks Doug. I can\u2019t control my crying, and I can hear the fear in his voice, but it\u2019s like I\u2019m listening from underwater. Everything is muffled and removed. \u201cOf\u2026 fff\u2026 ice,\u201d I stammer. \u201cStay right there,\u201d he says. \u201cI\u2019m on my way.\u201d I sit on the couch under shelves of all the books we\u2019ve created and realize none of it matters. None of it changes a thing. Doug charges into the office like he\u2019s going to battle, and I start crying all over again. \u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d I say. \u201cI\u2019m so sorry.\u201d \u201cThere\u2019s nothing to be sorry for. You\u2019re not going to jail. I\u2019m not going to jail.\u201d I hear what he\u2019s saying, and I know he\u2019s being logical, but all I can think of is that my worst fear has come true: My reputation has ruined his reputation. Doug, who has never broken a law in his life, done a drug, been anything but kind and good, is now being threatened with jail. \u201cLet\u2019s go for a walk,\u201d he says. I blindly follow him out of the office, and we walk away from the downtown area of Santa Cruz. I don\u2019t feel safe outside. I don\u2019t feel safe inside. As we walk, I keep looking over my shoulder, sure that the police are going to pull up any moment and take us both away. When Doug stops in front of the bank where we do business, I follow him inside without question. If he wants to get a little banking done while I\u2019m having a meltdown, who am I to judge? We approach Gustavo, who handles our accounts, and Doug greets him warmly. \u201cListen,\u201d he says. \u201cI want to add Lara as a signer on all our business accounts.\u201d Gustavo looks at me and I know I look like hell, but I smile weakly. This is Doug\u2019s way of showing me how much he trusts me. \u201cI meant to do this a long time ago,\u201d he says. \u201cI just never found a moment where we were both free at the same time. Today is the perfect day.\u201d The paperwork appears in front of me and I sign. Back at the office, Doug makes sure I am okay before he leaves. \u201cThis is nothing to be worried about,\u201d he says. \u201cThe person who sent that email is a coward. If someone was concerned, they could just call me.\u201d I nod. I know he\u2019s right, and I\u2019m a bit embarrassed that I thought we would both go to jail. When he leaves, I call Eileen. Besides being my new best friend, she used to work for the NSA. I tell her about the email, and she goes to work trying to trace it with some computer magic. The closest she gets is an address. I look it up online, and it is a business park with multiple offices. I leave the office and drive to the address. If someone is threatening me, I want to know who it is. I slowly drive by each business in the lot. A sign shop, an accounting office, a boat supply company. I google each business trying to find out the owner\u2019s name. Is it one of my old neighbors? I don\u2019t recognize any of the businesses. I don\u2019t know any of their owners or employees. I try to think about what could have triggered this email seven years into my job at Idea Architects, nine years after my arrest. And then it hits me. I agreed to give a public talk about my work as a ghostwriter. I search out the Rotary Club that invited me and see that they have just announced me as a speaker. For years I have lived under the radar, and then I forgot. The person who sent this email must be a member of the Rotary Club. I call the woman who set up the speaking event and leave her a voicemail. \u201cI\u2019m so sorry,\u201d I say, \u201cbut I won\u2019t be able to speak at your event after all. Something\u2019s come up.\u201d Logically I know I can\u2019t go back to jail now that I\u2019m off probation, but this message about my past triggers me. This hatred from the community triggers me. For every two steps forward, I take one step back. Or maybe it\u2019s the other way around. The only difference now is I don\u2019t have to walk alone. I have Bryan Stevenson and Ray Hinton and Eileen and Doug. I have Sam and my children. I have my comedy friends. They love me, they trust me, and I try to tell myself that it\u2019s enough to keep me safe. \n chapter 21 REAL POWER I\u2019ve had lots of imaginary conversations with Oprah Winfrey. I used to watch her talk show every afternoon. I laughed when she laughed, cried when she cried, and imagined myself sitting on a couch with her. Reading was escape, and so was Oprah. Ray and I are at Book Passage in Corte Madera, California. I\u2019ve come to see him while he is on his book tour. The moms whose game night I couldn\u2019t join at Kate\u2019s house before I met the Dalai Lama have now invited me to join their book club. I gave them all my advance reader copies, the early versions of the book reserved for reviewers, and they\u2019re also in the audience here, clutching their early copies. The bookstore\u2019s owner is distressed at seeing the review copies in their hands. \u201cYou\u2019re not supposed to have those,\u201d she says to them. I step in and point to my name on the cover under Ray\u2019s. \u201cIt\u2019s okay,\u201d I say. \u201cThose are my copies, and these folks will still buy the hardback version tonight.\u201d Dylan and Eileen are also with me, and it feels like a great event. Ray is on fire as he shares his story, and there\u2019s not a dry eye in the house. After the event, we only have a little time to catch up before he\u2019s whisked off to another event in a different city. I am in the office the next day when Ray calls. \u201cHellooooo,\u201d I say. \u201cThat was such a great event last\u2026\u201d \u201cLara!\u201d He\u2019s whispering. \u201cWhat?\u201d I ask. \u201cAre you okay?\u201d He clears his throat. \u201cI\u2019m hiding in the bathroom at my hotel. They are setting up for an interview outside the door so I have to be quiet.\u201d I\u2019m still confused. \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d \u201cNothing\u2019s wrong. She called me, Lara.\u201d \u201cWho called you?\u201d \u201cOprah! Oprah Winfrey just called me. She told me it was Oprah, and at first I didn\u2019t believe her.\u201d \u201cReally?\u201d I ask dubiously. Ray is known for playing jokes, so I don\u2019t know if he\u2019s teasing or not. \u201cShe picked the book, Lara. She picked The Sun Does Shine for her book club. I\u2019m not supposed to tell anyone, but of course I\u2019m calling you right away. This is our book. But you can\u2019t tell anyone, you can\u2019t tell anyone.\u201d \u201cNot even Doug?\u201d \u201cNot yet. She told me I can\u2019t tell anyone.\u201d I want to say \u201coh my God\u201d or \u201choly fucking shitballs,\u201d but Ray is a man of faith who never curses, so instead I just scream. \u201cI\u2019m so happy for you, Ray! So many people are going to read your story now. This is absolutely amazing!\u201d \u201cI have to go do this interview, but I will call you tonight.\u201d I want to laugh and cry and scream. This is the first Oprah pick for our agency. The first book where my name appears on the cover as a coauthor. This is Ray, one of my dearest friends, and a man who has experienced more injustice than just about anyone I know. I want to dance and shout and tell everyone the news, but I can\u2019t. I sit with the news for three hours. I can\u2019t concentrate on work, and all I want to do is call Doug. I want to tell him as a friend. I want to tell him as his business partner. And I want to tell him because he\u2019s Ray\u2019s agent, and he should know. But Ray trusts me, and I gave him my word. Mostly I just want somebody to celebrate with. I am just about to give in and tell Doug when a flurry of emails come in from Ray\u2019s editor and the publicity and marketing people at his publisher. Oprah has officially picked the book, and we all have to sign nondisclosure agreements and keep it secret for a couple of months. I call Doug immediately. \u201cDid you see your email?\u201d I ask. \u201cNo, what?\u201d \u201cRead your email and call me back,\u201d I say and hang up. I realize then that he might think it\u2019s another threatening letter so I quickly text him: IT\u2019S GOOD NEWS! He calls back within seconds and we scream into the phone. I call Ray back and tell him that Bryan, the publisher, and Doug have all been informed. When the publisher explains to us that it could be months before the official announcement because they have to order enough paper to meet the demand for books once the news is out, the significance of this news sets in. I\u2019m invited to go to New York City with Ray for the live television announcement on CBS This Morning, hosted by Gayle King. Despite growing up in Boston, despite working in publishing, I have never been to New York before. I can\u2019t tell anyone why I\u2019m going so I just say it\u2019s for work. Dylan is in New York on a business trip, so we spend two days together before he has to leave. Ray, his best friend Lester, and I are all staying at the same hotel. Doug is also joining us at CBS but is staying with his family. We all meet for breakfast before the car arrives to take us to the studio. Our editor, George Witte, meets us there and we all walk in together. The entire morning feels surreal, but it\u2019s real. And it\u2019s fucking fantastic. Ray is going to be live on air with Gayle King and Oprah, and I\u2019ll be in the glass-walled greenroom on set where Lester, Doug, George, and I can all watch the action in real time. Ray is calm as can be while my heart pounds. Once we get settled, Lester and I are sitting next to each other on the couch facing the set when I look up and see Oprah looking in at us. Behind her looms an image of the book\u2019s cover that takes up the entire wall. The title, Ray\u2019s name, and then my name below his. Oprah gives a little wave. I wave back. I stare at her in real life and feel vindicated, because in my mind anything Oprah approves of the culture approves of. And Oprah approves of me. Ray is doing so well with his interview that they keep him on for an extra segment. He comes back to the greenroom and we hug, and I tell him he absolutely killed it. Before he can reply, Gayle and Oprah walk in. Ray introduces me to Oprah. Tells her I am his writer. \u201cHi,\u201d she says and gives me a big smile. \u201cHi!\u201d I have nothing more eloquent to say in her presence. \u201cYou did a great job,\u201d she says. \u201cYou are an incredible writer.\u201d And that\u2019s it. I can die now. My life is complete. \u201cDo you want to take pictures?\u201d she asks. Gayle and Oprah, both in yellow, flank me on either side and Doug snaps away with his phone. I am smiling so huge I must look like my head will burst. It\u2019s all a whirlwind because Gayle has to get back on the air for her next segment, and Oprah has to go be Oprah. We\u2019re just about to leave when an assistant to Oprah comes in and invites Doug and me to lunch with Oprah and Gayle and Ray and Lester. I am about to be someone who lunches with Oprah. We have an hour to kill before lunch so the four of us wait in the lobby. I have dozens of messages and emails from people who see the show. The news is out. The restaurant we are going to clears the back half because it\u2019s Oprah. The manager takes me through first. \u201cIs this table okay?\u201d he asks nervously. I look around the room not knowing exactly what I\u2019m looking for. In jail, you never want to sit with your back to the door. Oprah is the ultimate shot caller, so I pick a table to the side, so she can see all the entrances and exits. At lunch I am seated to her left, and when the waiter comes to take our order, Oprah points to Ray and asks the waiter if he knows who he is. \u201cNo, sorry.\u201d \u201cYou will,\u201d says Oprah. \u201cYou want to know him. And you will.\u201d She orders champagne for the table, and we toast to Ray. \u201cI\u2019m going to go stand on Fifth Avenue and hand this book out to every person who walks by,\u201d she says. \u201cIt\u2019s going to be a bestseller!\u201d The lunch is lively, and everyone is in a great mood. Doug and Gayle and Ray and Lester are engaged in some conversation that I\u2019m not tracking because I am sitting next to Oprah. She has been making little side comments to me on the bigger conversations all throughout lunch. I hang on every word\u2014the ultimate fangirl. She tells me she loves the book, and that her team didn\u2019t want her to pick it because she had just picked a book about someone incarcerated. \u201cBut you know what I said?\u201d she asks. \u201cNo, what?\u201d \u201cI said, \u2018Do you see your name on this company? No, you don\u2019t. That\u2019s my name, and this is the book we are going to do.\u2019 And they read it, and I was right.\u201d She leans toward me and whispers, \u201cThat\u2019s power, Lara, that is real power.\u201d I recall telling Daddy that real power is quiet power. And I smile at Oprah as she toasts the table, and I think maybe real power isn\u2019t always quiet. Maybe real power is saying things out loud and owning your own story like you own a company or a network or a magazine. Real power is putting your name on things. Real power is about using your power to shine a light on other people so they can find their own power. A crowd has begun to gather outside the restaurant. I listen as Oprah schools me about power, Doug about movie deals, and Ray about managing his money and what to do when cousins of cousins come out and want him to pay their bills because he is famous. With each person she has a way of speaking their exact language. It\u2019s a gift. A powerful gift that gives her the kind of power Daddy couldn\u2019t even imagine. I look around this table, this restaurant in New York City, this unlikely lunch party, and realize that I have no idea what I want to do next. Life is strange and heartbreaking and wonderful, and it can change on you in an instant. I have been so many different people in my life\u2014wife, mother, real estate agent, Little League coach, school board member, lover, fighter, addict, felon. I have done good things, and I have done bad things. I have been so many different people in the books I\u2019ve ghostwritten, and worn so many different hats in my job, just to keep myself busy and striving. And during all of it, there was always this desperate undercurrent of me trying to prove to the world that I\u2019m valuable and worthy, more good than bad. I realize suddenly that I\u2019m tired of pretending I am anything other than who I am. People may love me or hate me, praise me or criticize me, reward me or punish me. All I can be is who I am now, and then work hard to become the person I most want to be. I\u2019m tired of hustling for an approval even the great and powerful Oprah can\u2019t really give me. I know what I\u2019m looking for can only be found on the inside, and it\u2019s going to be my job to keep finding it over and over. By the time we finish lunch, The Sun Does Shine has become the number one best-selling book on Amazon. Ray and I take this in on the car ride back to the hotel, both of us sitting side by side in silence at first. \u201cWe did it,\u201d he says. \u201cWe did it, Ray, we really did it.\u201d And then we look into each other\u2019s eyes and laugh and I start to cry. Neither of us has the words to convey how this feels. We were both somewhere else and now we\u2019re here. Together. He leans toward me and I meet him halfway across the seat and we embrace. Ray was once a condemned man on death row, and I was once in jail with a sheet wrapped around my neck. Now we are both number one bestsellers. Twenty-four hours later I am back home, doing laundry, sweeping dog hair off the floor. Lunch with Oprah already feels far away. The entire flight home I replayed the lunch and Oprah\u2019s words. I know I have a lot more inner work to do. I thought I had to convince the whole world that I am more than the worst thing I have done, the worst person I have been, but really I just have to convince myself. Now that I have brushed up against Oprah, old friends I haven\u2019t spoken to since before my arrest call me and gush. People want to get together. People want to have lunch. People want to know how I am. It all feels hollow, though. I don\u2019t want a community to welcome me just because Oprah made me valuable again in their eyes. I don\u2019t want any friendships that are shallow or conditional. I want real relationships. Real friends. Real community. And, I realize, I don\u2019t want to divorce Santa Cruz. I want to stay and make it work. Hawaii is a beautiful place to visit, but I don\u2019t want to banish myself to an island. Soon after I return from New York, Sam, Chase, Kaden, and I go to Hawaii for a vacation. I didn\u2019t want to live there anymore, but I did want to visit. We go straight to the beach from the airport, and Kaden and Chase are boogie boarding while Sam and I watch from the sand. The swell picks up out of nowhere, and suddenly the waves are huge, and the sets are relentless. Chase rides his board in, but Kaden is struggling. The waves are crashing over him and pulling him farther from shore. It is like one of my natural-disaster nightmares I\u2019ve had since my arrest\u2014where my boys are being pulled away from me and I can\u2019t reach them. Only this is real. As if in slow motion, I see the lifeguard jump out of his tower and run into the ocean, with Sam running right behind him. Everyone on the beach stands up to watch. Another swimmer is trying to reach him as well. Three powerful swimmers who all know the ocean are trying to save him while I can only stand on the beach and watch. Only I can\u2019t watch. I can\u2019t even breathe. I turn away, turn my back on the ocean and on Kaden. I am a coward. I am weak. I am afraid. I only look away for a few seconds before I force myself to turn back and stand witness to my youngest son\u2019s struggle to survive. Sam, the lifeguard, and the other man have hold of Kaden but they\u2019re all fighting the waves to get to shore. At least he isn\u2019t alone. I stand on the sand in the sun and face him and will them all to come in safely. The old me would have hid my fear from him, but when he makes it onto the beach I run to him. I wrap my arms around him and burst into tears. \u201cAre you okay? I\u2019m so glad you are okay. I was so scared. Oh my God.\u201d He is shaking and he hugs me back, but then quickly lets go. \u201cI\u2019m fine. I\u2019m okay.\u201d \u201cI couldn\u2019t watch,\u201d I say. \u201cI was so scared, and I turned away because I couldn\u2019t watch. I\u2019m so sorry I did that.\u201d I start to cry even harder, and as a crowd gathers around us, he gets frustrated. \u201cIt\u2019s okay,\u201d he says. \u201cLet\u2019s just go! God!\u201d I\u2019m embarrassing him even more than a public beach rescue. I quickly gather our things from the beach and we walk to our rental car. Sam opens the back for us and puts the boogie boards in, and then he and Chase get in the car. Kaden and I stand at the open trunk and I fold him in my arms again. He rests his head on my shoulder. \u201cI love you,\u201d he says. \u201cI was so scared.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m sorry, baby guy. I was so scared too. I love you so much.\u201d We hold each other like that, sandy and afraid, but together. \u201cIt\u2019s okay,\u201d I say. \u201cYou\u2019re okay. We\u2019re okay.\u201d I have been watching Kaden for signs of trauma ever since his year away from me. When he was in first grade, he told me he had a secret he couldn\u2019t tell me and I panicked, thinking it was something horrific, some abuse from his nights in foster care before Bryan and Darcy had taken him. I begged Dylan, Cody, and Ty to try to get the information out of him and tried to steel myself for the bad news. It turned out he had kissed a girl on the cheek. Every day I inspected him for any places where I had broken him, and year after year, even though I didn\u2019t find any outward signs, I was prepared for his trauma to manifest in some big way. Just when I start to think that we\u2019ve escaped unscathed, almost overnight, he is hit with crippling anxiety. He suddenly thinks he is going to be kidnapped. He is afraid to be home alone, afraid to sleep without a flashlight aimed at his door, afraid even to walk downstairs and get water on his own. He stops hanging out with friends, he doesn\u2019t go outside, and his fears overwhelm him. I immediately take him to therapy, to an anxiety coach, to EMDR treatments. I buy him herbal stress remedies. I try everything, and still he is afraid. I don\u2019t know if it is just puberty hormones, a phase, or if it\u2019s the beginning of mental health issues he will struggle with for a lifetime. This anxiety is real and tangible and stronger than something that can just be cured through a mother\u2019s love and attention. It\u2019s something unseen and unknown, and nothing I try seems to help. I feel guilty and powerless. I want him to feel safe, and no matter what I say or do, he simply doesn\u2019t. We talk about his anxiety often, and he keeps telling me we need to move. We\u2019re still renting the only home that hadn\u2019t required a background check when we left Doug\u2019s house, and finding another such rental seems impossible. But Kaden is insistent. He starts to email me real estate listings. \u201cWe can\u2019t buy a house,\u201d I say. \u201cWhy not?\u201d \u201cWe don\u2019t have the money you need to put down on a house. Homes are so expensive here, it\u2019s impossible.\u201d When I tell Doug about Kaden\u2019s anxiety and his wanting to move, Doug is sympathetic. \u201cMaybe you should listen to him.\u201d \u201cI can\u2019t afford to buy a house. I have nowhere near the kind of down payment money I would need.\u201d \u201cYou could borrow the money against your profit share in the business.\u201d \u201cSeriously?\u201d \u201cSeriously.\u201d Sam and I make a list of everything we want in our dream house. Bedrooms for the kids, an office for me, outdoor space for the dogs, a workshop for Sam. We describe this imaginary place to each other and ask Kaden, Chase, and Dahlia what they imagine in their dream home. A week later a friend of a friend tells me about the house she is selling. It is on seven acres and has everything on our list. This is right before Halloween, and by Thanksgiving we are set to close escrow. I have never owned a home, and when Sam and I go to sign the paperwork, I realize that this thirty-year mortgage isn\u2019t just a whole new level of financial commitment, it\u2019s also me committing to being a stable, income-earning, non-drug-using, stay-out-of-jail, gainfully employed type of person for the next thirty years. I\u2019m going to be someone\u2019s permanent neighbor. This is going to be my permanent home. It feels so much bigger than just a new house\u2014there\u2019s a weight to it that I take on. A week after we move in, I can\u2019t find Kaden anywhere in the house and I panic. \u201cSam, Kaden\u2019s gone!\u201d \u201cHe went for a walk with the dogs.\u201d \u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d I am incredulous. \u201cI mean, he\u2019s walking. Outside. With the dogs.\u201d After nine months of his not being able to go downstairs alone, I can\u2019t believe it. I am waiting for him when he gets back. \u201cHow was your walk?\u201d I ask. \u201cAwesome.\u201d \u201cHow did you sleep last night?\u201d \u201cGreat!\u201d \u201cHow\u2019s the anxiety, then?\u201d I sound anxious when I ask this, so I say it again more nonchalantly, and he laughs. \u201cI told you we just needed to move. I\u2019m fine. Stop freaking out all the time. Jeez.\u201d It is such a normal fourteen-year-old thing to say that I laugh, and when he rolls his eyes I laugh harder. At Christmastime all the boys and their friends converge on the new house. We are sitting around the dining room table laughing and I think about being in G and imagining a home with sunlight and happy faces. It\u2019s taken a decade but this, I realize, is that home. And it didn\u2019t just help Kaden\u2019s anxiety\u2014it helped heal mine as well. As long as I keep showing up every day in my life, no one can take this home away from me. There is no other shoe that is going to drop. I have all my boys with me, and this home is all I have ever wanted\u2014safety, sanctuary, and joy. All I\u2019ve ever really wanted is a place to call home, and now I have it. Kaden and I are both growing up. And for the first time, I really believe we are each going to be okay. \n chapter 22 THE WORST THING I HAVE EVER DONE I\u2019ve obviously lost my mind. It was easy when I was high on Oprah and New York City to decide to own my story and stop caring what other people think, but it\u2019s another thing to step out on a stage and actually rat myself out. Plus, I\u2019ve had no time to prepare. We\u2019ve had an author in town all week, so I\u2019ve had no time to rehearse or memorize what I\u2019m going to say or how I\u2019m going to say it. The theme of this TEDx is hope. I hope I don\u2019t throw up. I was also hoping Doug would talk me out of it at the last second. \u201cA lot of our authors still don\u2019t know my past. People might be upset.\u201d \u201cLara, I will say what I\u2019ve always said. If people don\u2019t want to work with us because of your past, we don\u2019t want to work with those people.\u201d \u201cI know, but\u2026\u201d \u201cLook, if you\u2019re not ready, you can back out. A bad TED Talk is worse than no TED Talk.\u201d This gets my competitive edge up, as he knows it will. \u201cI can do it,\u201d I say. \u201cI just need a couple of hours to practice what I want to say so I don\u2019t embarrass myself while I\u2019m humiliating myself.\u201d Doug laughs. A year earlier I had gone to see a shaman and she told me she needed to do a soul retrieval. \u201cWhat does that mean?\u201d I asked. \u201cSometimes a part of our soul fractures off. It can happen in early childhood or during trauma. I can go in and retrieve it.\u201d I still didn\u2019t completely understand, but if I had left pieces of my soul lying around I wanted to pick them up. I was ready to be whole. During the ceremony or procedure or whatever it was that had me lying on a table while she shook rattles over me, she told me that before I was born into this life, my soul made a contract. \u201cWhat was the contract?\u201d \u201cI\u2019m not sure exactly what this means, but maybe it will resonate with you.\u201d \u201cOkay,\u201d I say. \u201cWhat contract did I make?\u201d She looks at me and gives a little shrug. \u201cYour contract was to be on a stage as no one.\u201d \u201cWhat does that mean? Is that a good thing or a bad thing?\u201d \u201cYour contract is what you agree you\u2019re here in this lifetime to learn\u2014it\u2019s always something hard.\u201d \u201cWell, can I break it?\u201d \u201cOnce you\u2019ve learned what you\u2019ve needed to learn, you don\u2019t need to break it. You\u2019ve fulfilled the obligations of that contract. It can end.\u201d I think about the secrets I had been keeping, my ghostwriting, my addiction, my lying, my loneliness\u2014all the things that had kept me feeling removed from myself, from life. I was done being on a stage as no one, I was done living in shame, and I was done living under the shadow of the worst person I had been. I was ready to be on a stage as me. So for almost fourteen minutes I stand on a stage and tell everyone who wanted to listen exactly what I was so afraid they would find out. I was once the neighbor from hell. And then I tell them about some other people I have been. I ask everyone in the audience to think about the worst thing they had ever done, and then I ask them to tell it to the person to their right. The audience gasps, and that feeling behind the gasp is exactly what shame feels like. I am done living in shame. I talk about how high the barriers are to rejoining society after incarceration, and how much harder it becomes under the weight of gossip and judgment. I am telling myself what I most need to hear. That I\u2019m human, and humans make mistakes. I no longer live in fear of the \u201cNeighbor from Hell\u201d headline. I own it and say yes, that\u2019s who I was for a moment, for a season of my life, but it\u2019s not who I have always been nor who I have become. That headline has no power over me anymore. It won\u2019t shut me up or shut me down. For the first time in over a decade, I google myself. The headline doesn\u2019t immediately pop up. It\u2019s still there. It will always be there. But now you have to click through a few pages in the search results, and this feels right. For the first time since my arrest, I drive past my old house. Around the cul-de-sac where neighbors and friends stood gawking as I was taken away in handcuffs. My former front yard is full of plastic toddler toys. The fence DJ and I built is sagging, but it still stands. As I drive through my old neighborhood, I wait for my heart to race and my chest to constrict. I\u2019m on the lookout for an angry mob. I watch for the shame and fear to flood my body. They don\u2019t. In the end, it\u2019s just another house in another neighborhood. And behind every front door is a family made up of people with their own struggles, their own secrets, and their own fear and shame that someday those secrets will be found out. So yes, I was once the neighbor from hell. I have also been a dozen different people in a dozen different books. I have lived many lives and will hopefully live many more. But for now I am just myself. I have done lots of good in my life, and I have also done lots of bad. One doesn\u2019t negate the other. And the truth is, I don\u2019t believe the worst thing I have ever done is found in the stealing or lying or drug abuse. The worst thing I\u2019ve ever done is build an identity out of the worst thing I\u2019ve ever done. I\u2019ve condemned others for not being able to see beyond my past when I was the one who couldn\u2019t see beyond my past. There\u2019s no doubt that our \u201cjustice\u201d system is broken. There\u2019s no doubt that as a society we ask people to pay far beyond what their criminal sentences ask of them. It\u2019s a truth we all need to examine. Because how we take care of broken people matters. Fundamentally, I believe, it determines our own humanity. And we don\u2019t just sentence someone to a year or five years or ten years\u2014we turn every sentence into a life sentence. Every sentence is a life sentence. I believe the best thing that ever happened to me was going to jail. I am a better mother, a better friend, a better worker, and a better writer because of my experiences. I\u2019ve been a liar and a truth-teller, selfish and selfless. I\u2019ve been smart and stupid. I have hated myself and learned to love myself. I have hustled for my self-worth\u2014looking for it in the things I owned, in other people\u2019s love and approval\u2014but I have come to accept it as fundamental regardless of what I do or don\u2019t do. There is freedom in owning all the parts of me\u2014the good, the bad, the ugly, and the beautiful. I made the conscious choice to create an identity out of the worst things ever said about me, and now I choose differently. It was always my choice. I eventually become co-CEO of Idea Architects, but then in 2022 I leave to start my own literary agency. I name it True Literary because I want to create something wholly true to me, to my vision for books and stories that will make the world a better and kinder place for everyone. It sounds a little cheesy, but I think, as the Dalai Lama would say, it\u2019s my dharma\u2014that I\u2019m finally living my soul\u2019s purpose. I think often about what Oprah told me about real power\u2014and my takeaway was that it\u2019s not only having your name on the door but using your power to shine a light on other people. I will always have a soft spot for the underdog, the ones living at the margins of life, the addicts, the criminals, and anyone who wants to transform their suffering by using their own stories to inspire others. I\u2019m grateful for all the people who lifted me up while I was at my lowest, and I try to pay it forward wherever and whenever I can. My older boys are all grown and out of college. Kaden will be graduating and heading off to college soon, and his memories of being taken from home have faded. I no longer overcompensate for what happened, and he no longer tests me to make sure I will stay. The single year we were apart no longer defines our relationship or haunts my sleep. DJ eventually found his way out of drugs. He is an ultra-endurance runner and a good father. Sam and I have been married for close to a decade, and each year that passes I settle more and more into the unfamiliar space of being vulnerable. Talking to him after a hard day, asking for help with a problem I\u2019m struggling with, working through a disagreement\u2014all of it still feels like learning a foreign language, but with practice it gets easier. I guess the third time really is the charm. My home is chaotic and loud and full of children and animals and love. My addiction to escape is in remission, but I stay vigilant in case it shows up again. For now, there is no other place I\u2019d rather be than where I am. There is no other person I\u2019d rather be than who I am. And no other life I\u2019d rather live than the beautiful mess of a life I\u2019m living. \n acknowledgments Buckle up because this is going to be a lot. For as much as I like to think of myself as a loner, there are so many people from my many lives who I need to acknowledge. First, I have to thank my agent, my friend, my partner in crime (not literally, people), my first champion, and the person who opened up a brave new world of wonder and opportunity and words to me when I was at my lowest\u2014Doug Abrams. If \u201cthank you\u201d is the most powerful prayer there is, then I offer it up to you, Doug. Thank you, a million times thank you! Peanut Butter Meet Jelly. I also must thank my other agent, my more fashionable and chic twin, my work bestie, my Wordle foe, and one of the most brilliant and badass women I know in business and in life\u2014Rachel Neumann. I want to be you when I grow up. Thank you for supporting me through this process, even when I was crying in parking lots, and for the many times you were just simply there\u2014a calm presence when I was anything but. Doug and Rachel make everyone they meet better humans. You should meet them! I also want to thank everyone at Idea Architects for being the best hype team for me as a boss and as an author; Janelle Julian, Mariah Sanford, Ty Love (see dedication), Bella Roberts, Sarah Rainone, Mark Hitz, Jordan Jacks, Alyssa Knickerbocker, Kelsey Sheronas, Julia Shefcik, Staci Bruce, Stacie Sheftel, Kelly Miner, Andrew Mumm, Michael Matkin, and all the collaborative writers I got to train and work with over the years. I miss you. I love you. I am grateful for every single thing each one of you taught me over twelve years. Eamon Dolan, my brilliant, kind, ruthless, savvy editor at Simon & Schuster, thank you for pushing me out of my comfort zone when I needed it, reassuring me when I needed that, and teaching me what the phrase \u201cvague bombast\u201d means. I\u2019m still going to send you that T-shirt! We chose each other, and this book is better for those choices. You make me smarter every single time I talk to you. Eamon has his own book coming out\u2014and you all want to read it! Thank you to everyone at Simon & Schuster who believed in me and in this book\u2014Jonathan Karp, Priscilla Painton, Tzipora Baitch, Lewelin Polanco, Beth Maglione, Sara Kitchen, Bri Scharfenberg, Alyssa diPierro, Omesha Edwards, and Julia Prosser. There are so many people working behind the scenes in production and sales and publicity and marketing, and while I may not know all your names, I appreciate you, I hope to meet you, and you are the bridge between author and reader and there should be monuments in your likeness. A big thank-you also to Joseph Papa of Joseph Papa PR for taking me on (even though I\u2019m not a celebrity) and being my publicity champion! In the UK I want to thank Caspian Dennis and Sandy Violette at Abner Stein, and Camilla Ferrier, Jemma McDonagh, Brittany Poulin, Saliann, and everyone else at the Marsh Agency. You are all my UK family, whether you signed up for that or not. I also want to thank my UK publisher and editors: Claudia Connal (miss you), Jake Lingwood, and the amazing Mala Sanghera-Warren. There are also a ton of people behind the scenes at Hachette/Octopus Publishing Group launching my book into the UK, and I am grateful for all of you and hope to meet you in person. Thank you to Scott Budnick, Ameet, Gabby, Katie, Lauren, Saul, and the entire One Community team for reading about my trauma and thinking this would make some great TV comedy. Obviously. Thank you to Amy Welsh-Hanning and Mallory Edens for believing in this project and lending your passion, expertise, and humor. And a big thank-you to Sylvie Rabineau and Elizabeth Wachtel, my film/TV agents at WME for being both brilliant and bighearted. Hollywood needs more people like you and like all the people I\u2019ve mentioned. It wasn\u2019t easy to write this book and I\u2019m grateful to all the friends, authors, early readers, late-night talkers, guides, and cheerleaders who helped me along the way. Eileen Burke-Woodward, Heidi Rielly, Bill Rielly, Clifford Henderson, Dixie Cox, Erica Smith Jiminez, Lori Cressy, Lisa Smith (thank you for finally letting me into a book club), Noel Diop, Evy Poumpouras, Silvia Vasquez-Lavado, Jane Chen, Emma Nadler, Crystal Hefner, Benjamin Gilmer, Mark Daley, Karen Sparks, Ren Ligon, Ben McBride, Eldra Jackson, Aaron Shulman, Robert Waldinger, Ethan Kross, Jim Doty, Dave Evans, Bill Burnett, Cynthia Chase, Cassandra Byard, Tracy Van Hoy, Irene Tsouprake Holombo, Peggy Callahan, Boo Prince, Alexandra Metzler, Chris Metzler, DNA, Kristy Gateley, Carly O\u2019Brien, Oliver Midgley, Anaya Saipresert, and so many more. I could write a whole other book with the names of people who have been there for me when I was finally brave enough to share my story. Thank you for helping me find the humor in the tragedy and the meaning out of the mess. A special thank-you to Bryan Stevenson and my dear friend Anthony Ray Hinton. You are both an inspiration to me always! Before I began my writing journey, I took another kind of journey to Soltara in Costa Rica with twenty perfect strangers. I love you all, and we shared a weeklong psychic battle few could comprehend (what is behind door 2?). Megan, Mike, Luke, Tariq, Will, Liz, Weslie, Bronson, Rachel, Banay, Irene, Phil, George, Anthony, Kazu, Bree, Beth, Alan, and Catherine \u00d7 2. Thank you to Kenton Bell for the coaching, the laughter, the guidance, and reminding me that everything I need, I already have. Still waiting for that Zap! And finally (finally), I have to thank my family (buckle up again). I want to acknowledge my new family (thank you, DNA testing\u2014this is a story for the next book): my father, Dave Lawrence; my sister, Shelley Welander; my two new brothers, Kevin and Craig Lawrence; and my brother-in-law, Cam. My seven nephews and nieces that I never knew I had: Copper, Ever, Jasper, Ella, Grace, Sofia, and Mackenzie. We have become a family late in life, but you have given me the greatest gift of my adult life: family. We recognized each other from the jump, and my heart is full with each one of you. To the children I gave birth to, Dylan, Cody, Ty, and Kaden, I love you always and forever and it\u2019s you all who put the \u201cMama\u201d in Mama Love. You are all such amazing young men, despite the messiness of my many lives, and thank you for your grace and forgiveness and unconditional love. To the children I have been lucky enough to play the role of stepmother for, Hailey, Logan, Chase, and Dahlia\u2014thank you for letting me be the bonus parent in your life as you\u2019ve grown. I love you all fiercely. Finally, to Sam, my third-time\u2019s-a-charm husband who shows me every day just how magical and exhilarating steady love and support can be. You make me feel safe. You make me feel loved. You adore me at my quirkiest, and support every single crazy idea I\u2019ve ever had. You have no idea what a gift you are just by being next to me. I can\u2019t believe I\u2019ve made it married so long, and I can\u2019t wait to see what the next thirty-plus years have in store for us! Thank you to the women in G and the women in Blaine who shared this journey, you know who you are\u2026 To learn more about how to help incarcerated and formerly incarcerated women, please visit: www.thegemmaproject.org \n about the author \u00a9 CODY LOVE LARA LOVE HARDIN is a literary agent, author, and president of True Literary. Prior to founding True Literary, she was the co-CEO of Idea Architects. She has an MFA in creative writing and is a four-time New York Times bestselling collaborative writer, including the #1 bestseller Designing Your Life and the 2018 Oprah\u2019s Book Club pick The Sun Does Shine, which she coauthored with Anthony Ray Hinton. She lives in La Selva Beach, California. SimonandSchuster.com www.SimonandSchuster.com/Authors/Lara-Love-Hardin @simonbooks \n Simon & Schuster 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 www.SimonandSchuster.com \u201cPrayer Before the Prayer\u201d copyright Mpho Tutu, from The Book of Forgiving. Certain names and identifying details have been changed. Copyright \u00a9 2023 by Lara Love Hardin All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Simon & Schuster Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020. First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition August 2023 SIMON & SCHUSTER and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc. For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or business@simonandschuster.com. The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com. Interior design by Lewelin Polanco Jacket design and illustration by Pete Garceau Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for. ISBN 978-1-9821-9766-7 ISBN 978-1-9821-9768-1 (ebook) \n Thank you for downloading this Simon & Schuster ebook. Get a FREE ebook when you join our mailing list. Plus, get updates on new releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster. Click below to sign up and see terms and conditions. CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive exclusive offers in your inbox. \n We hope you enjoyed reading this Simon & Schuster ebook. Get a FREE ebook when you join our mailing list. Plus, get updates on new releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster. Click below to sign up and see terms and conditions. CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive exclusive offers in your inbox. \n More in Personal Memoirs The Glass Castle Shoe Dog The Girl with the Lower Back Tattoo Year of Yes An Invisible Thread Primates of Park Avenue \n"
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upstream_id / Original problem ID: 6723a1ccbb02136c067d70b3
task_id: 91ef9715-d480-501d-a883-d307cfe4c741
task_key: train--6723a1ccbb02136c067d70b3
task_revision_id: 3
config / split: / train

Official source

initial import