5 Years Before Prison Release

  The kitchen was too quiet, the kind of quiet that felt like a held breath. Five-year-old Jace didn’t mind it; he liked the silence because it meant his mother wasn’t crying or rushing. He sat on the linoleum floor, the legs of the kitchen table acting as the four corners of his world. In front of him was a piece of construction paper, bright yellow, and a box of crayons with the tips worn down to stubs.

  He was drawing a house. Not their house—the apartment with the leaky sink and the neighbor who hammered on the walls—but a real house. It had a chimney with loopy smoke and a stick-figure man standing out front.

  “I’m making the ‘D’ big in Daddy, Mommy,” Jace whispered, not looking up.

  Christy didn’t hear him. She was leaned against the wall, the coiled yellow phone cord wrapped three times around her index finger, pulling her skin white. Her face was bright, her eyes crinkled in that way they only did when the recorded voice from the correctional facility finally cut off and he picked up.

  “I know, Jay. I know,” she murmured into the receiver, her voice dropping into a honeyed coo. “I miss you too. So much. The bed feels like a desert without you. Jace is right here, he’s writing you a letter. He’s getting so big, you won’t even believe it.”

  Jace smiled at the paper. He picked up the black crayon to give the stick-figure man a hat. He wanted his dad to look fancy.

  “I’ve been counting the days,” Christy continued, her voice light, airy. “But, Jay… things are getting a little tight here. The landlord, he’s being a real prick about the rent I owe, and the hours at the club just aren’t covering the power bill anymore. I’m struggling a little bit, babe. Just a little.”

  The air in the kitchen didn't just shift; it died. Jace’s crayon slowed. He didn't have to hear the other side of the conversation to feel the temperature drop. The honey in his mother’s voice curdled.

  “No, I’m not—I’m not asking you for money, I know you don’t have it,” Christy said, her hand trembling now, the phone cord tightening. “I’m just… I’m tired, Jay. I’m raising him alone and it’s hard. I just need to know it’s going to be okay.”

  A beat of silence. Then, Zurich’s voice must have cut through the line like a serrated blade. Christy flinched, pulling the phone an inch away from her ear as if the words physically stung.

  “What the fuck do you want me to do about that, Christy?”

  The shout was muffled, but Jace heard it. He stopped drawing. The black crayon stayed pressed against the yellow paper, creating a dark, heavy smudge. He looked up, eyes wide, watching his mother’s face collapse. The hope drained out of her features, replaced by a raw, hollow desperation.

  “Jay, don’t say that,” she pleaded, her voice cracking. “I’m doing my best. I’m doing everything for you, for us.”

  “Look,” the voice on the other end was a low, dangerous rumble now. “You need to do what you have to do, Christy. Stop being a victim. It’s pathetic.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked, her voice a small, broken thing. “What am I supposed to do?”

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  “Don’t be naive. You’re a woman. You’ve got certain skillsets, don’t you? Use ‘em. Or don’t, and go sleep under a bridge. I don’t give a shit, just stop whining to me about bills I can’t pay from a cage.”

  Christy’s mouth hung open. A single tear escaped, carving a path through her foundation. “I don’t want to do that, Jay! I’m not—I can’t—”

  The line went dead. The aggressive clack of the hang-up echoed in the small kitchen. Christy stood there for a long moment, the dead receiver still pressed to her ear, listening to the rhythmic, mocking hum of the dial tone. Then, she let out a sob—a jagged, ugly sound that tore out of her throat.

  Jace stood up. His legs felt heavy. The drawing on the floor was forgotten, the stick-figure man with the black hat looking up at nothing. He walked over to his mother, his small hand reaching out to touch the denim of her thigh.

  “Mommy? Are you okay?”

  Christy didn't look down. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, but it only smeared the mascara. When she finally did look at him, there was no warmth left. There was only a flickering, white-hot embers of shame and anger.

  “Go to your room, Jace,” she snapped.

  “But I finished the let—”

  “I said go!” she yelled, her voice cracking.

  Jace flinched as she pushed him toward the hallway. It wasn't a hit, but it was a rejection, sharp and cold. He stumbled back, his lip quivering. He looked at the kitchen table, at the yellow paper he’d worked so hard on. He reached down, grabbed it, and crushed it into a tight, jagged ball in his fist. He didn't cry. He just walked to his room and shut the door.

  Four hours later, the apartment was dark.

  Jace wasn't asleep. He was curled into a ball under his covers, listening to the floorboards creak. He heard the click of his bedroom door. He squeezed his eyes shut, pretending to be asleep.

  Christy stood in the doorway. The light from the hall cast her in silhouette, but the smell of her perfume—heavy, floral, and cheap—drifted to the bed. She was wearing an outfit she usuals at the nightclub she dances at, except tonight she wasn’t working at the club. Her face was painted on, a mask of heavy eyeliner and crimson lipstick that looked like a wound. To Jace, she looked like a stranger playing dress-up in his mother’s body.

  She didn't say anything. She just watched him breathe for a second, her own face an unreadable blank. The emotion had been drained out of her, replaced by a hollow, mechanical resolve.

  Her phone buzzed in her hand. Parking now.

  She typed back a single word—Coming—and closed the door.

  Jace heard the front door lock. He heard the engine of a car idle in the street below, then pull away.

  Weeks bled into months. The routine became the architecture of their lives. The phone calls with Zurich became shorter, more transactional. The "dates" became more frequent. The crying stopped. The shame, once a heavy weight, became a skin she wore. She stopped looking at herself in the mirror; she just looked at the money on the dresser.

  One afternoon, Christy was setting up the tripod for the webcam, her movements practiced and numb. She was wearing a lace teddy she’d bought with the proceeds from the week before.

  Suddenly, the room tilted.

  A wave of heat rolled over her, followed by a sickening, acidic surge in her throat. She dropped the tripod and scrambled to the toilet, collapsing onto the tile. She retched until her ribs ached, her forehead pressed against the cold porcelain.

  As she sat back, gasping for air, a terrible, cold clarity washed over her. She reached into the messy vanity drawer, pushing aside lipsticks and hair ties until she found it—a crumpled box with a very important stick inside.

  Minutes later, she sat on the edge of the tub, staring at the plastic stick. Two pink lines.

  The silence in the bathroom was absolute. She looked at her reflection—the heavy makeup, the tired eyes, the body she had turned into a commodity on Jay’s orders.

  She wasn't crying. She was just numb. She touched her stomach, her eyes reflecting a sudden, sharp terror.

  She had done exactly what he told her to do. And this was the price.