As the food is cooking, Jackson asks me to sit down and color with him. I bring a coloring book and a big box of crayons to the table.
“I’m going to draw a picture for Daddy,” he tells me. “And one for you.”
“Thanks, buddy.” I carefully tear out the pages he wants and take one for myself, absentmindedly coloring Mickey Mouse in different shades of pink.
“Are you from Chicago?” he asks.
“I am.”
“Aunt Winnie lived there. I went there before. We took a train!”
“I used to take the train a lot. It’s pretty cool.” Cool if you like the smell of piss and dealing with the assholes that always seem to be on the same route I am.
“It wasn’t like Thomas the Train.”
“No, I guess it’s not.” I trade my light pink crayon for a darker one.
“Actually, I’m going to give this picture to Emma.”
“Who’s Emma? A friend?”
Jackson shakes his head, and hair falls into his eyes. He looks so much like his father.
“My cousin. She’s a baby.”
A baby cousin? Must be Quinn’s. I just smile and nod, not wanting to know any more about the Dawson family. Don’t know, don’t care. Once I get enough money to take care of Dad, I’ll be out of here and won’t give them a second thought.
“Emma and Uncle Archer have the same birthday.”
“Mh-hm.” I need to tune this out.
“And Uncle Archer cuts people open. For his job!”
“Wow, that is cool. He’s a surgeon, right?” Dammit. I already know too much.
“Right. And he really cuts people open!” Jackson says slowly, eyes wide. “He saved me from the pool once. I almost died.”
I stop coloring and look at Jackson. “You almost died?”
He nods and puts on a terrified look. It’s fake, but he knows he’s supposed to be upset when he talks about this. Smart kid. “I fell in and water got inside my breathing. I had to go to the hos-able!”
It takes me a second to realize ‘hos-able’ is hospital. “That’s scary. I’m glad you’re okay now or else I wouldn’t get to play with you all day.”
He nods and starts coloring again. “Daddy was scared. I think he cried. Don’t tell him I said that. Daddy doesn’t cry. Not even when Mommy left.”
“Your mommy left?”
Abort. Abort. Stop asking questions. The less personal info you have about Wes, the better.
“Daddy doesn’t know where she is.”
“Oh, um…” I have no idea what to say to that. I’m no good at this.
“She didn’t love me enough to stay here.” A line of worry forms between Jackson’s eyes, and I hurt for him. I put my arm around his shoulders.
“That’s not true. She must have just, uh…uh…had something else to do.” It’s a good thing I’m not posing as a counselor. The gig would be up on that one within minutes. “I’m sure she loves you in her own way.”
“I don’t know what she looks like. Maybe she’s pretty like you.”
“If she’s lucky.” I give him a wink.
He goes back to coloring, telling me about something that happened on an episode of PAW Patrol. I wrestle with my mind and my mind ends up winning. So Jackson’s mother left him when he was little, too little to remember her. Why? And how?
It. Doesn’t. Matter.
Water boils over from the pot on the stove, hissing as it reaches the burner beneath. I jump up and turn the heat off, hoping I didn’t ruin something as simple as boxed macaroni and cheese. Jackson keeps coloring as I drain the water, testing a noodle. It’s a little overdone but isn’t terrible.
I make the mac and cheese, cover it, and take the nuggets out of the oven. Weston should be back from work soon and I suppose we can all eat together. My phone rings, and I know it’s my sister right away.
“Hello?” I answer, waiting for the automated voice asking if I’ll accept a call from an inmate.
“Hey, sis,” Heather rushes out. “You didn’t come visit me today, what gives?”
“I started a new job.” Looking at Jackson, I step out of the kitchen. “I probably won’t be able to come for a while, actually. I’m in rural Indiana.”
“What the fuck are you—sorry, I won’t swear anymore,” she says to a guard. “What are you doing there?”
“I’m a nanny again.”
A few seconds of silence pass and I can only imagine Heather’s stunned face. “Why?”
“I need money.”
“But I had a job for you.”
“I’m not doing that,” I spit out, blood pressure rising. “No fucking way.”
“But you’ve been all flirty with that C.O. He has it bad for you. Asks about you all the time.”
“That doesn’t mean I’ll bring—just no. I keep him favorable in case you need an extra snack or if I ask him to look the other way if—no when—you do something stupid. Like this. But I can’t flirt my way into or out of this.”