I believed Darlene. I believed I was rotten. I believedmy mother looked at me and saw something wrongand decided $800 was a fair trade.
I lived with Darlene until I was eleven. That’s when aneighbor finally called somebody. I don’t know whattriggered it. I don’t know if they heard something orsaw something or just finally decided they’d lookedaway long enough.
CPS came. Darlene was arrested. I went into fostercare.
I’m not gonna walk you through every foster home.There were four. Some were okay. None of them feltlike mine. I aged out at eighteen with a garbage bag ofclothes and a GED and the bone-deep belief that I wasfundamentally unlovable because my own mother hadsold me for grocery money.
I ruined two relationships before I was twenty-five. Noton purpose. I just couldn’t let anyone get close. Everytime someone said “I love you,” my brain said “Yourmama didn’t want you.” Every time someone left thehouse I was sure they weren’t coming back.
I had two miscarriages. I was married for fourteenmonths the first time. He wasn’t bad. I just couldn’tstop testing him. Picking fights to see if he’d leave. Hedid. I don’t blame him.
Then I met Curtis. Curtis is the kind of man whodoesn’t flinch. I tested him for two solid years and hejust kept showing up. He’d say, “You done?” and thenhe’d make dinner. He married me anyway. I still don’tunderstand why.
Last Tuesday. April. I was sitting at the kitchen table inour apartment in Decatur. Curtis was making coffee.Biscuit was under the table chewing on a sock.
The mail came through the slot the way it always does.Bills, a coupon packet from Kroger, a flyer for a pestcontrol company. And a letter. Plain white envelope. Noreturn address. My name and address handwritten inblue ink. Handwriting I didn’t recognize.
I opened it.
“My dear Jolene. I know you probably hate me. I haveno right to write to you. I was forced to give you up. Ihad no choice. Your father owed money to dangerouspeople and they told me if I didn’t give you to Darlenethey would hurt you. I chose to let you go so theywouldn’t hurt you. I have thought about you everysingle day for thirty years. I want to see you. I am inMacon. Please.”
There was an address at the bottom. And a name.Lorraine.
My mother’s name is Lorraine.
I read the letter three times. My hands were shaking sobad the paper was rattling against the table. Curtisheard it and came over. He put his hand on myshoulder. I couldn’t feel it. I was somewhere else. I wasfive years old standing on a hot driveway watching agreen Buick pull away.
“Jo. Talk to me.”
“My mother wrote me a letter.”
Curtis sat down. He didn’t say anything for a long time.Then he said, “What do you want to do?”
I said, “I want to go to Macon.”
I drove alone. Curtis offered to come. I said no. Thiswas mine.
