The social worker says Jake will be different now that he’s getting out of Lincoln Hills, a prison for boys.
“Of course, he’ll be,” I say, digging for a pen in my purse to sign the papers she’s handed me. “He’s been in here for two years. He’s practically a man now. Almost eighteen.”
“No, Gwen,” she shakes her head. “There are other things.” Normally, she’s the same as everyone else: the teachers, the police officers, the lawyers, the judge. They act like their degrees taught them something I don’t know about my son. Like his own mother doesn’t know what’s best, and they can’t wait to tell me what I’m doing wrong—that I leave him alone too often, that I never check his homework or ask where he’s going or who he’ll be with.
But today, there’s something different about her. Her voice isn’t preachy but chirpy and fast, more urgent. She wipes sweat from her palm with a tissue.
“He’s going to be afraid,” she says.
“Afraid of what?” I want to ask her how my son could possibly be afraid of leaving a prison where guards watched him strip and shower, groped his body to make sure he was clean enough. He’s leaving a place where another boy stabbed him in the stomach with a sharpened pen cap when he found out what Jake had done. I want to tell her that my son is returning to the safest place for him; he’s coming home.
“We discussed this in our last session, but you weren’t here, so…” She says we even though I didn’t show up. Even though it was just her and Jake, and he doesn’t say much when I am here. The papers state Jake can be released on probation into my custody. There’s some other fine print about his housing needs and therapy and officer check-ins—all that stuff. I’ve been working my ass off to get everything together—extra hours at JC Penney and even late-night shifts at the old supper spot on I-94. I missed the last therapy session getting everything lined up for his return.
“He’s going to need you these first few weeks. Everything in here has been structured and planned.”
Her office reminds me of the courthouse lobby with its soft lighting, tan carpets, and smooth leather seats, except it’s in a big, cold prison. It’s like the set of a play Jake was once in—a little bedroom made up to look cozy but sitting in the middle of a school gym. I can tell that this room is more make-believe than real.
“So, he needs a babysitter?” I ask.
“He’s had to ask for permission to do everything here: to use the bathroom, to exercise, to play cards. He can’t be left alone. To be successful, he needs you.” She frowns, and her eyes narrow into razor blades. “Can you promise me that you’ll stay close to him?”
“He’s my son.”
“Yes, he’s your son,” she says. “But he’s also a sex offender.”
I don’t say anything—my stomach knots up, and I wince at her words. All I can do is hand over the paperwork. She scans it quickly and then sets it Jake? I had to move us to a new .
