front was released. I told myself to smile. Sit up straight. Say it was a long night. I was just trying to get my children home to bed. I sucked in my stomach. I don’t know why.
“Ma’am,” a voice behind a white light shining in my window called, “can I see your driver’s license and proof of insurance?”
I could feel my forehead getting hot and wet beneath the light. I smiled and went into my purse. Through the corners of my eyes, I could see the light bounce over my shoulder and into the backseat where another light was shining.
I started saying something about how dark it was and that I was surprised to see the roadblock up so late, but then the light came bouncing back to me and retracted back behind a round, lemon-colored face.
“Ma’am, are you aware that your children are crying in the backseat?”
I don’t remember if I said “yes” or if I was just thinking it, but next, I was out of the car and standing against the bumper with four police officers around me.
“I didn’t drink anything,” I said, answering one of the officer’s questions for the third time.
“Mrs. Johnson, you couldn’t tell us where you were going or why you’re in the area. And your children are nearly hysterical,” he said. “Don’t you think it’s time you started telling us what’s going on?”
“I can,” I said. “I will.”
“Now,” the lemon head jumped in, “how much have you had to drink?”
“Not a lot,” I answered quickly.
“So, is it ‘not a lot’ or ‘none’?” the officer with all of the questions asked.
“I just had a little,” I tried. “I’m having a really bad day . . . and my husband,” I started crying, sobbing so heavily my nostrils were filled with salty tears. I could hear Cheyenne screaming for one of the officers not to remove R. J. from the car.
“Mrs. Johnson, this isn’t about your day. This is about you drunk driving,” the lemon head said.
“I’m not a drunk driver,” I said. “It’s not me. It’s just a bad day. I’m trying to get my children to my husband.”
“Get off of him,” I heard Cheyenne scream and I turned immediately from the officers to see someone pulling R. J. from the backseat. His arms were flailing and he was crying silently in anger.
“No, that’s my son,” I said, reaching toward him, but it felt like a million hands came down on my body and held me to the trunk.
“255 Means Drive!” R. J. yelled harshly at the female officer trying to hold him still. “255!”
I saw the park. The playground. R. J. waiting for me in the sandbox. Him smiling into the sand. It felt like, looked like, and smelled like home. All around me. I wanted to be there, too. Back before all of this. When we were together.
“He just wants to get to the park,” I cried, trying to squirm away from the hands on my back. I kicked and kicked, hitting legs and arms and chests. “Let him go,” I screamed. “Let my baby go!”
I was being lifted high and passed along a torrent of blue suits, pink hands, and round faces.
I saw Cheyenne reach for me and I fought to get to her, but I couldn’t.
I saw R. J. reach for me and I reached back for him, but I couldn’t reach him.
Soon I couldn’t see my hands or feel them. They were tied to my back like I was an animal and I felt the hard and cold leather seat in the back of the police car slap against my cheek.
“I’m not a drunk driver,” I hollered out to the hands stuffing me into the car. “I’m not a drunk driver!” I shouted and then I saw dark clouds rolling into my eyes in spirals. They gathered all in together and then everything went black.
There was something wet on my forehead. Something cold and soft and wet. I opened my eyes and a strong light came shining in. I blinked and tried to look up at the soft thing above my eyes.
“Ohhhh,” I murmured. Something pounded in my head as I tried to move.
“Stay still, Dawn.”
I blinked again and squinted under the pain in my head and saw my mother standing over me.
“Mama?”