LITMIR.BIZ

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Hamm, the prison minister who’d taken Jesse under his wing, had volunteered to pick Jesse up and deliver him to his new home and job. But, two days ago, Mike’s first daughter had been born a month prematurely, and he was needed elsewhere.

      “No problem,” Jesse had said. The prison van would take him to the bus station. The bus would drop him off in the small town of Apache Creek where he had a job lined up.

      But instead of the prison van, he saw his mother standing by a broken-down, faded blue Chevy Cavalier.

      He froze, unsure whether to move forward or turn back, and more than annoyed that five years in prison had taught him to wait and let someone tell him what to do.

      Susan Campbell’s dark hair hung past her shoulders, still long and thick. Today she wore a billowy top and tight shorts. She’d always dressed as if she were sixteen and looked as though she needed a good meal. He’d have recognized her anywhere even though he’d not seen her in seven years, two months and six days.

      In prison, keeping track of dates was a favorite pastime.

      Two days ago, he’d received an opened envelope with a note from his mother, their first contact in five years, two months and four days. The staff member who’d handed Jesse the envelope had raised an eyebrow while passing it over.

      This note from his mother wasn’t censored. Words on plain white paper proclaimed, “I’ll be in touch after you get out. Got a surprise for you. S.”

      This was the surprise? Her coming to pick him up?

      Yeah, right. She’d never been the kind of mother who understood that surprises were supposed to be good, fun, memorable. Her idea of a surprise during his early childhood had been dropping him off for an extended stay at some relative’s house so she could run off and have fun with her newest boyfriend.

      Back then, like the guard, she’d often said, “See you soon,” and it had been Jesse playing the guessing game: how long before Mom comes back?

      If ever.

      The guard at Jesse’s left tensed. “I thought you’d arranged for the van?”

      “I did, but it’s okay.” The old Jesse would have said a few choice words to dear old Mom and walked away. He’d have boarded the van without giving her a chance to say a word to him. Susan had never given much of anything to him. But he wasn’t the old Jesse, the angry young man who’d made a bad choice and paid the price. He was forgiven, made anew, and had the scripture from Second Corinthians to prove it: “If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come.”

      One of his goals as this new person was to tie up the loose ends of his life and forgive, if he could, this woman who looked older, harder, yet the same.

      Susan pushed off from the car and walked toward them, stopping a few feet away when the guard held up his hand. Now Jesse could see strands of gray in her hair. “Well, you just going to stand there?” she asked.

      He gripped his duffel bag more tightly. Everything he owned was inside. The bag wasn’t heavy.

      “You don’t sound too sure,” the guard said. “Is she on the list?”

      “She’s my mother. And, I’m not sure of anything,” Jesse continued, as together they walked to meet her, “except that I don’t ever want to come back to this place.”

      Susan hadn’t moved from where she stood, but she agreed, “I’m glad to hear that. Prison’s no fun.”

      The guard took her name, motioned her closer so he could look at her driver’s license, and radioed the information in. Surprise, surprise, she was on a list Jesse didn’t know existed, and yes, she could pick him up.

      “Get in,” she instructed him.

      Every instinct warned him: Don’t do it! Run. Take the prison van. But he’d not seen her for over seven years. Some stupid part of him still hoped she had changed. And even if she hadn’t, he had. He was through running from his problems. From now on, he’d face them directly. He slowly followed her to the two-door car and settled his body in the passenger seat with his mostly empty duffel bag on the floorboard under his feet.

      The Chevy looked like she’d been living in it with suitcases, taped boxes, dirty laundry and fast-food wrappers scattered throughout.

      “Where do you want to go?” she asked, starting the engine and waving at the guard, who didn’t wave back.

      “Apache Creek. You need to—”

      “I know where it is and how to get there.”

      His mother drove the way she always had, speeding toward her destination—sure that whatever was ahead improved on what she’d left behind. He fastened his seat belt and rolled the window down, not even bothering to ask about air conditioning.

      Silence, an intangible accusation, accompanied them for a good five miles. Finally, Jesse couldn’t take it anymore. “I’m surprised you knew I was in, much less when I was getting out.”

      She smiled, a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I didn’t, not until last week. That’s when I wrote you the letter.”

      He didn’t bother to tell her that thirteen words didn’t constitute a letter. Half afraid to hear the answer, he asked, “What happened last week?”

      Instead of answering, she muttered, “I hate confinement.”

      Jesse knew of only two times his mother had been a guest of the system. Both times he’d wound up a ward of the state.

      Could he forgive her for that, and for everything else? He knew the answer should be yes...and yet he couldn’t decide, not today when he had fifty bucks tucked in his sock, just the most rudimentary belongings in his duffel and the phone number of a stranger offering a job in his pocket. He was supposed to call the man at two o’clock.

      He couldn’t afford to blow this opportunity. If Susan ruined it for him, as she’d ruined so many things in the past, then that would be a real challenge even for a Christian to forgive.

      As they sped down the highway, he took note of his surroundings. It had been, after all, over five years since his view wasn’t obstructed by a chain-link fence. The scenery wasn’t much to brag about. To his right was a giant parking area waiting for winter when a flock of snowbirds in RVs would descend. To the left was the empty shell used by the Renaissance fair in the winter. Neither landmark welcomed him to sweet freedom.

      Both were better than prison.

      “What happened last week?” he finally asked again. “Does it have to do with the surprise you wrote about?”

      She didn’t answer. Instead, she nodded toward an interstate sign announcing Apache Creek Next Exit and left the highway. As she slowed the car, she looked in the rearview mirror, at the suitcases, boxes and clothes scattered in the back. He’d seen that expression on her face many a time. She felt trapped, like life had passed her by and somehow she’d missed out on what she deserved.

      “I had a ride,” he said. “You didn’t need to pick me up.”

      “Yes, I did.” She drove down the main drag, slowing when she passed a fast-food restaurant, then a bar and grill, before finally turning into the parking lot of a rustic café. “You hungry?”

      He doubted he could swallow a bite. For the past hour, he’d been trapped in a car with the mother he needed to forgive. The whole hour had felt eerily like still being in jail: trapped, at someone else’s mercy.

       If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come.

      He’d eat with her, forgive her and walk away knowing he’d done the right thing. “I’m a bit hungry.”

      She parked close to the front door. Jesse grabbed his duffel and exited the car. He had the address for his new job in his pocket; he’d get directions and walk from here.

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