​Chapter Fifteen
Natalie

Ten years ago, I got smacked in the face by a prostitute for sitting on “her” bench in our cozy little jail cell.

I guess you could say I’m now passing life with flying colors in comparison. But I know what it looks like. I know what Wren must think of me.

I just have a knack for not caring.

You ever go back in your head and look for the moment? The one where you snapped and everything changed around you? I guess if you were watching my life like a movie, you’d circle your red pen around the time I got arrested for illegally harboring somebody else’s coke and nearly sending some Bronco owner to his early demise.

Good guess, but that’s not it.

No. It’s the day I was sitting in my kitchen, my husband next to me, years before Wren was even born. And I looked at his face, at the heart on his hand (which I always used to go back to as one of many reasons not to leave him. Who else would have the cajones to do something like that?), and I remember letting the voice talk to me for the very first time.

Natalie, we don’t need any of this.

Sure, I used to think things like that all the time. Like when Rebecca was a snotty-nosed baby and would constantly tug at the end of my shirt. And I’d pick her up and hold her tight to my chest because it was something I had to do, and really, wanted to do, I guess.

But there was always that part of me that knew the difference.

That day at the kitchen table, though. That day? The voice wasn’t mine. It was deeply sealed inside somebody else’s chest.

Something else’s.

It was the same voice that friended me during the dark nights and when I had to do something hard like leave everything I knew for Wren.

See, that’s what she doesn’t understand. How this was all for her.

It was the same voice that set me back on my feet and sent my fist flying into that prostitute’s face, tit for tat.

Because if it were up to Natalie Reynolds, there’d be no fight. There’d be a deep sleep. A disconnect. And I don’t know if you’ve looked around this life long enough, but the ones that check out are eaten alive.

It’s the reason I still hate Rochelle so much.

She wasn’t checked out. Okay, parts of her were. The part that knew her son, or more accurately, didn’t. The part that turned a blind eye to her monster brother.

But with Wren. She loved Wren. She tried to teach her.

It’s what she taught her that broke my heart.

Rochelle came up here to raise Wren. I won’t act like that didn’t mean something. My sister received the same opportunity, and I know she has Antonio, but I kind of feel like we lobbed the ball up for her to smash it out of the park. “I’m sure she has the means to find someone to take care of her daughter,” is what she told the social worker. I’ve never bitten my tongue so hard. But then the social worker said Rochelle agreed and even wanted to move up here so Wren’s life wouldn’t be disrupted.

Saint Rochelle, I guess.

Man, I don’t really mean that. It’s just that while I was duking it out with that prostitute and then duking it out with Dr. Carol (first name, seriously) at the rehab center, Rochelle got to hold my daughter. And love her.

The very things I would have died to do.

But what also was a thorn in my already tired side was knowing how she took Wren to church. SHE. GOT. HER. BAPTIZED. I’m not gone but twelve months, and suddenly, I’m face-to-face with a goody two shoes who’s been brainwashed to turn the other cheek.

I couldn’t have that.

I couldn’t let her be weak.

But here’s the other thing: Rochelle was dying.

She didn’t think to tell the social worker about that. About the breast cancer that was already eating her up, inside out. Selfish. That’s what I thought. That’s what I sometimes still do.

But maybe less selfish. Maybe more selfless.

Probably both.

How didn’t she know that Wren would be torn to pieces? She waltzes back into her granddaughter’s life only to teach her a fairytale and die.

And guess who’s been handed the broom and dust pan?

Wren’s a mess. I’m not blind. And I know the churchy folks will say, “It’s because you ripped her away from her faith.” She was seven. How does anyone know what they believe at that age?

I didn’t hurt her. I helped her. And I have no regrets about it.

If I didn’t do it, she wouldn’t have survived.

She’s strong now. A firecracker. She kind of reminds me of Mary which is worrisome but a better Mary. One that won’t sizzle out. I caught wind that Mary died a few years back from “unknown causes.”

She OD’d. I was right.

I’m always right about a lot of things.

The only thing that bugs the snot out of me is that Glenn never called to tell us that Rochelle died. I just never heard from her again. So poor Wren thinks I’m just on the outs with Rochelle and that the woman’s still trucking along in Texarkana. And I refuse to call and prove her wrong.

But no matter. My girl’s strong and no longer brainwashed by all that Jesus talk.

And she’s going to be just fine.

Just like me.

“Hey there, sweet thing. You gonna come by and take my order or just tease me?” I look up and see a table of out of season hunters in camo coats and camo caps but mostly, I see dollar signs.

“Absolutely, baby,” I say, discreetly hitching up my skirt an inch.

See? Just fine.