Page 19 of All the Ugly Things
Feeling anything pissed me off.
She wanted to be stubborn and prideful and an idiot? I should let her. Dad should.
I stood from the stool and dropped down twenty bucks along with our card—for Dad, because I promised him I’d leave it again.
“Enjoy your shift,” I said. “But Dad will be back. He loves Judith’s pies.”
I turned, storming outside the falling apart diner and slammed the door to my car after I climbed in.
My knuckles ached by the time I got back to my loft. My jaw hurt worse. I spent an hour in my weight room and showered and chugged a beer and paced my home.
The whole time, Ifelt. For the first time in two years, Ifelteverything.
And I started hating her for that, too.
The next morning I went to Dad, told him she didn’t listen to me either and we’d done all we could.
He looked crestfallen and disappointed.
For that, I hated her even more.
6
Lilly
My life became a routine, set in place mostly by Ellen insisting that a routine would help reintegrate me into society.
I had despised her the first time I met her.
She came to me the day after I left Mitchellville Women’s Prison and showed up at the halfway house, filled with hard features, a stack of papers in her hands with rules and requirements, and an angry look on her face that said she hated me and what I’d done already.
I’d wasted too many years on too many people trying to explain the truth, so I didn’t bother.
Later, I started realizing she wasn’t all bad. We talked about my education, what I wanted now.
She enrolled me in my required Alcoholics Anonymous treatment I’d been doing since I was sent to Iowa. She helped me get my photo ID even though my license was suspended until my parole was over and I was officially free.
And she set me up with Nancy.
My counselor who I originally spoke with twice a week but had slowly stretched out to monthly appointments. Apparently, being imprisoned could create a type of PTSD when inmates were released. We spent so many hours every day being told what to do, not allowed to do, and looking over our shoulders in case we’d made enemies or someone else decided to make us one of theirs. It was a constant mindfuck, where you could never relax and every time you were treated like an animal a part of your humanity was chipped away.
The first time Ellen knew I needed a counselor was that first day I met her.
“What do you want to do now?” She watched me with narrowed eyes and a doubting tone. Everything about this meeting unnerved me down to this very question.
Panic squeezed my chest and made my vision blurry. How was I supposed to know? I’d only been told six days ago I was being paroled. I hadn’t had time to plan, time to dream. Hell, I hadn’t even finished college like I’d planned on and now I was sleeping in a room without bars on it, listening to my roommate snore herself to sleep at night while she held an eight-inch blade in her hand.
Now what did I do?
My chin trembled and I brushed away tears. God. For the first time in years, I was crying and that made everything worse. Was I that broken?
Inside, I’d learned to cope. Keep my head down, keep friends with the crew I formed. I turned my eyes away from those who broke rules and I never owed anyone a favor I wouldn’t be willing to pay back.
Now? What did I do now?
“I don’t know.” My voice wobbled and my heart thumped painfully inside my chest. I looked down and saw my clothes. Faded and torn and ratted and stained, I looked like I’d just come up from a three-day drug bender and felt even worse. I hadn’t slept since getting in that taxi.
I hadn’t eaten since last night and it was now dinnertime.
