The Push by Ashley Audrain (motivational novels TXT) 📗

I don’t know why you put the painting there. We never spoke of it. It’s in our bedroom now, here with me, in this empty house. I barely notice its details anymore, like the finish on the faucets or the backward way the laundry door opens. But every once in a while, that woman, that mother, looks at me. The sun hits her in the morning and brightens the colors on her dress for hours.

46

Some days when I couldn’t be at home any longer, I would ride the subway from one end of the line to the other. I liked the darkness outside the subway car windows, and I liked that nobody spoke to one another. The motion of the train was soothing.

I saw a poster stapled to a board on the platform and took a picture of it with my phone.

Two days later, the address took me to the basement of a church. The room was cold and I didn’t take my jacket off, although everyone else’s coats were stuffed on wire hangers on the rolling rack in the corner. I needed an extra layer between me and the damp chill that came through the white cement walls. An extra layer between me and them. The mothers. There were eleven of them. There were gingersnap cookies and a pot of coffee, and creamers placed in a basket that was lined with a Christmas napkin even though it was April. There were orange plastic chairs, the kind they used to set up for assemblies in my high school auditorium. Something profane was carved into the seat where I sat. Here we were, assembled, me and the mothers.

The group leader, an impossibly skinny woman with gold bangles up her arms, asked us to introduce ourselves. Gina was fifty and a single mother of three, and her oldest son had murdered someone in a nightclub two months ago. With a gun. He was awaiting trial, but he would plead guilty. She cried as she spoke and her skin was so dry that the tears made dark, defined rivers on her face. Lisa, who sat beside her, had patted the woman’s hand even though they did not know each other. Lisa was a veteran of the group. Her daughter was serving a fifteen-year prison sentence for the attempted murder of her girlfriend and was barely two years into her time. Lisa had been a stay-at-home mother from the time her daughter was born. Her voice was soft, and she paused before the last word in each of her sentences. She had plum-colored hammocks under her eyes.

I was next. The fluorescent lights flickered just before I spoke and I wondered if I might be saved by a power outage. I told them my name was Maureen and that I had a daughter who was in jail for theft. Theft was the least-bad thing I could think of. Theft seemed like just one bad mistake, like everyone had done it but not everyone had been caught. Like I could still be the mother of a person who was good, and lovable.

I don’t remember all the details now of what everyone else said, but I remember there was a rape, and a few possession charges, and someone’s son had killed his wife with a snow shovel. She said it was the Sterling Hock murder, like we all should have read about it in the newspaper, but I had never heard about it before. The group leader reminded us that we shouldn’t use last names or details. We were to be anonymous.

I searched each of their faces for something familiar to me.

‘I feel like I’m the one who committed the crime,’ one of the mothers said. ‘The guards treat me that way at the facility. The lawyers treat me that way. Everyone looks at me like I’m the one who did something wrong. But I didn’t.’ She paused. ‘We didn’t do anything wrong.’

‘Didn’t we?’ One mother spoke up after thinking for a moment. Some people shrugged and some people nodded and some sat perfectly still. The group leader looked as though she were silently counting to ten, a tactic she might have learned in her social work program, and then she reminded us there were cookies for the break.

‘You gonna come back next week?’ Lisa with the eye hammocks passed me a napkin for the coffee that dripped on my hand while I filled the small Styrofoam cup.

‘I don’t know yet.’ My forehead was beaded with sweat. I couldn’t be in the room anymore with these women. I’d wanted to see other mothers like me, mothers whose children had done something as evil as mine had, but the basement walls were beginning to feel like they were closing in on me. I felt in my purse for the prescription I still hadn’t filled. Instead I felt the softness of his diaper. I had always carried one in my purse.

‘This is my second group. The other one happens Mondays, but I usually work Monday nights, so I can’t go unless someone switches their shift with me.’

I nodded and drank the lukewarm coffee.

‘Your daughter, is she within driving distance?’

‘Yeah.’ I looked around for the exit sign.

‘Me, too. Makes it a lot easier, doesn’t it? You go often?’

‘Sorry – the restroom?’

She pointed me toward the stairs and I thanked her, desperate to leave the basement.

‘We’re not that bad,’ she said. I stopped in the doorway. ‘You’ll find out for yourself, if you decide to come back from the bathroom.’

‘Did you always know?’ The words felt like teeth yanked from my jaw. But I had to ask.

‘Know what?’

‘Did you always know something was wrong with her? When she was young?’

The woman raised her eyebrows at me and I think she knew then that I’d lied to them.

‘My daughter