Between Now & Never (2 page)

T
he moment the door closes behind me, I feel it: less space, less sunshine, less air. Well, I’ll admit: in Phoenix, Arizona, less sunshine this time of year is a good thing. But I hate this place. Hate it.

“Name?” the officer at the desk asks.

“Julianna Schultz,” I say, folding my arms in front of me with every ounce of the Latina attitude I was brought up with. Makes me feel better somehow. I won’t let this place give me the creeps. “I’m here to see my mother.”

The officer raises a brow, looking past my shoulder. “And you, sir?”

I glance at my dad, his blue eyes, scruffy chin, and bean-pole figure. I almost forgot he was here.

Dad steps forward and mumbles, “Jon Schultz.”

Officer Pugmier clucks his tongue as he scans the approved visitor list. Not only do I recognize him from our last visit, I remember his name. I never imagined I’d know the inside details of prison like I do now. Pugmier stands and hoists up the belt at his hips with a grunt. At least we’re all uncomfortable to some degree. “Step over here.”

We go through what’s becoming “the usual.” Pugmier checks my driver’s license, which sports a dreadful picture of the old me. A lot can happen to a teenage girl in one year, and thank goodness. As I approach the metal detector, my heart races. Officer Pug watches me, stares. He, of course, is clueless about the nickname I’ve given him. Pug: it fits him, and it makes his stern face not quite so fearsome.

Pug clears his throat and I snap to, focusing on the detector ahead. I walk through without a beep, but Pug asks me step aside for a pat down.

“Don’t worry,” he says when I give him a pointed look. “It’s a random search.”

Why does this place make me feel like a criminal? I’m no angel, but I’ve never stolen, never cheated, nothing. Still, this place has my skin crawling. When my lovely pat down is over and I’m walking down the long hallway with no purse, no car keys, and no cell phone, I understand why. Even for a visitor, entering a prison means giving up a piece of your freedom.

The door opens and Dad hangs back. “I’m gonna grab something at the vending machine.”

Good. I told him on the drive up that I wanted a moment alone with Mama. I know what I need to say. Even in prison, my mom is way easier to confide in than my dad. I sit and scoot closer to the table, the chair legs scraping the floor with a screeching echo. And then she walks in.

I pop back up, a myriad of emotions unfurling within me. The first genuine smile I’ve felt for weeks tugs the corners of my lips upward. Words evade us as she approaches the table. So not normal. My mother is Mexican, and I like to claim the same, even though I’m only half. She’s everything to me.

She wraps her arms around me in a crushing embrace.

“Mama,” I say, burying my face into her bony shoulder, hugging her back. Taking her in. Her dark hair, light brown eyes, warm smile, and her scent—like a fresh breath of air. Yet something is different. I pull back, then glance around. Excessive displays of affection are prohibited. One hug, one kiss, that’s all. It’s the craps.

We sit on opposite sides of the table. Normally, we’d kick back side by side on the living room couch for hours, exchanging stories and outbursts of laughter.

That’s when I realize what’s different:
everything
. I take in my mom’s uniform, my gaze drifting down her baggy outfit before snapping back up. Mama notices.

“It’s ugly as sin,” she admits and then shrugs. “But really, it’s not that bad.”

I raise one brow, giving her a look that says otherwise. This earns a crack of laughter from her. At least I made her laugh. Mission one accomplished.

She leans forward and clasps my hands from across the table. Her nails have been chewed off. “Oh,
mi joya
, I have missed you.”

How I’ve missed
her
—her voice, her rich accent.
Mi joya
is her own way of calling me her “jewel.” Only Mama can call me that.

I bite back the crude words that would accurately describe how much the past three weeks without her have sucked, settling for a grin instead.

“I’ve missed you, too.”

My eyes sweep the cinder-block-walled cafeteria, the fluorescent lighting making my eyes wig out. I blink, then glance down at the ratty edges of her nails again. “How’s it going in here?” I ask, diving right into mission number two.

She doesn’t budge, just glances away for a nanosecond and flashes a smile. “I can watch TV. Read books. They have a library.”

This breaks my heart, Mama looking for the positive. She’s too optimistic, too sweet.

“Come on, Mama.”

“What?” she says.

“Cut the crap.”

“It’s not crap.” The hitch in her voice betrays her. Mama never was a good liar.

I take in the angular line of her jaw, her hollow cheeks. She’s always had a fast metabolism, but this is something else. “How’s the food?”

She diverts her gaze with a grimace. I got her. We Mexicans know food. “Bland,” she admits. “All right, it’s like going to a
really
awful restaurant.”

“I knew it.”

“But let’s not dwell on these things,” she says.

“Fine,” I say.

“How was your last week of school?” she asks.

“Fine.”

“And work?”

“Good.”

“Are you sick of chocolate yet?”

I give her an incredulous look.

She throws a glance upward in defeat. “How dare I ask?”

It’s a good thing I’ve got a good metabolism, too, or working at The Chocolate Shoppe would stink.

“I’ll bet you’re already looking forward to soccer this fall,” Mama says, trying to keep the conversation light.

“Yeah,” I say, ignoring the stabbing reminder that she won’t be around to see any of my games.

Mama pauses, no doubt fishing for another trivial question I’m not about to let her ask.

“How’s your roommate?” I ask. “You said you were getting someone new?”

“Good, good,” she says twice.

“You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

Mom feigns innocence. “Really, there’s nothing to say.”

“Mama,” I say with a dramatic folding of my arms to make my point, “this is me you’re talking to. There’s always something to say. Out with it.”

She laughs, a weak chuckle with no life in it. “Okay, okay,” she concedes with a roll of her eyes that lets me know something big is coming. Something she’d rather not talk about. “My roommate,” she begins and lowers her voice, “was convicted of second-degree murder.”

“What?” I shriek.

“I know.”

“How? How did she get into a minimum security? And why does she have to be
your
roommate?”

“We all share a dormitory. I have many roommates.”

“But this murderer—”

“Shh, keep it down,” she snaps in a voice pitched for my ears alone.

“This
chick
,” I correct myself, unable to control my volume, “shares a bunk with you?”

Mama nods. “She was in a maximum security for nineteen years but got transferred here because of good conduct. She’s got health problems, too. We have better medical facilities.”

“I didn’t know they could do that,” I say, floored. And enraged. The US justice system is so screwy. So much for mission number two. Mama is
not
okay. No wonder she was trying to keep the conversation light. Protect me, even. I have the sudden impulse to drag her out the door and make a run for it.

I try to think of something consoling, something positive, like she would. Something validating like,
Gosh, it sucks that you’re bunking with a homicidal maniac.
Or perhaps,
Hey, it could be worse.
Neither seems quite right, so I keep my mouth shut.

Mama shrugs. “Who knows, maybe I can get a few months shaved off my sentence for good conduct as well.”

Hope springs up. But hope can be a cruel thing because it often leads to disappointment. I dare to let myself feel it though, grasp it, hold on tight.

“What about the pageant, Julianna?” Her eyes light up with sudden interest. “How is everything coming along for that?”

It’s like a splash of cold water in the face, this hairpin turn in the conversation. “The
pageant
?”

“Yes,” she urges and leans forward. “It’s only a few months away.”

“Mama,” I say, sounding like a seven-year-old being asked to clean her room. Terrifying images of my Little Miss Arizona days flash before my eyes, frizzy hair and all. Let’s get one thing straight: I am not beauty pageant material. If this were anyone besides Mama here, I’d shout
absolutely not
. “I’m . . . well . . . you’re in
here.
”

She must be joking. I never wanted to compete in the pageants she put me up to even when she was around to help. I don’t want to go near the Miss City of Maricopa Pageant this fall without her. This was perhaps the only bonus about Mama going to prison. Guilt latches on with that thought, but it’s true.

Wearing the crown was what teenage Mama lived for, even though her
papi
told her she wasn’t good enough to compete. Believe me, I feel her pain. She went ahead and competed behind his back. And lost. Now she wants me to suffer likewise? Yes, she must be joking.

One look at her pleading eyes shatters that hopeful conclusion.

“So?” she says. “You’re still going to do it, right?”

I stare at her with dawning horror as I realize how serious she is.

The hope that lit up her eyes shrivels as she watches me. “You’re at least considering it, aren’t you?”

Getting out of the pageant and letting her down easy is all I’ve ever considered. The dark circles under her eyes flag my attention. I try to forget the fingernails she’s bitten off in the past few weeks behind bars.

“I’ll . . . think about it,” I lie. Like I said, I’m no angel, but lying to my own mother?

Her posture deflates like a flat tire, the air of excitement seeping out with one prick. It hits me with a pang, the guilt. Oh, the guilt. But how could I set myself up for failure again? I’m a magnet for this type of thing, getting my hopes up and failing miserably. Like my solo piece in
Guys and Dolls
back in junior high. Like running for student council last spring.

Mama’s eyes float upward and a signature smile settles on her lips. I glance back and spot Dad holding a box of Junior Mints. Always Junior Mints.

“How is your
papi
?” Mama asks, breaking the painful silence.

I clear my throat and try hard not to pull a face. This conversation keeps going from bad to worse.
Drunk as ever. Losing it without you.
“Fine,” I say.

Mama nods. She misses him, too; that much is as plain as day. You see, it’s not like we’re the falling-apart-at-the seams type of family. Mama shouldn’t even be here, if you ask me. This all started because my brother Vic had a drug problem. We thought he was getting better. Then one morning he was gone, along with the Blu-ray player, the flat screen, Dad’s laptop, Mama’s jewelry, my hard-earned iPhone, and even my piggy bank. My piggy bank! Okay, so maybe we
are
falling apart at the seams.

That’s when Mama decided to take matters into her own hands. She’s smart, you see. She cooked up a plan at the bank where she worked to bring in some extra cash. It paid for Vic to get proper rehab. Only problem? It was illegal.

Mortgage fraud.

I still remember the jerk FBI agent who put her away. Tall, with a square jaw and the type of blond hair that adult men usually outgrow. He was as cocky as you’d expect any fed to be, too. The type of guy who has no idea what true desperation will do to a person.

Mom waves Dad over. I sit upright, about to protest. Mission number three. I didn’t tell her yet. This was the reason I insisted on a moment alone with her in the first place.

Dad sits. They hold hands across the table and start talking.

I think about the money, the forty-five dollars I kept hidden away in my underwear drawer. I can close my eyes now and see them: one five, two tens, and a twenty. They were there. I know it.

And then they were gone. I searched the entire drawer. Double-checked. Triple-checked. Dumped everything out and raked through it all. No money.

Vic. The jerk.

He denied it, but I know better. If Mama only knew what I’m worried he’s up to again. She thinks rehab wiped drugs out of Vic’s life—our life—for good. Only one thing intimidates me more than this place: Vic on cocaine.

I tune back into my parents’ conversation in time to hear Dad telling Mom about his newest sculpture. Heaven help us all, he turns our house into a scrap yard whenever a creative high pulls him into the clouds. Most people get rid of spare junk and try to keep mud outside the house. When your dad is a sculptor those items are easier to come by than a clean fork at lunch.

“This is the one,” he says. I almost forgot how contagious his smile can be. “This piece is gonna be big. I’ve got a good feeling.”

“That’s wonderful, Jon,” Mom says, practically glowing.

I don’t buy it for a minute.

Dad has had plenty of “big projects” and “good feelings.” He used to work as a design sculptor for General Motors. Good salary. We left the apartment and bought a house of our own, the house we’re currently hanging on to by a thread of late-paid bills. Good salary or not, Dad decided he hated his job. Said his creativity couldn’t “soar.” Whatever.

“Julianna and I were talking about the pageant,” Mom says. I snap to. She pats my dad’s hand like he’s supposed to pipe in and help the cause.

Dad shifts in his chair and avoids eye contact, like we’re discussing brands of tampons at a grocery store. “Oh,” he mumbles with fake interest.