Effects of Maternal Incarceration on Me (a short section)

Hypotheses

It won’t hurt forever. It probably hurts her more than it does you. Do you have a right to cry about it then? I’ve been juggling a lot of questions recently, and they don’t keep me awake at night, but they do jolt me awake at dawn.

H0: How long before people stop asking me “how’s your mom doing?” Based on three years of evidence, we can assume this question won't go away any time soon and is, therefore, null.

This one doesn’t seem as important as the following hypotheses, but this question haunts me the most. I like to rehearse as I’m falling asleep at night, but I always struggle to find something positive to say when actually met with this question.

“How’s your mom holding up?” asks my hair stylist, my tattoo artist, my best friends, my boyfriend’s parents, and that random lady on Facebook Messenger at least once a year even though I’ve never responded.

This question hides in the awkward silence between my friends and I when I take a collect call in front of them. After 15 minutes of forced enthusiasm followed by a daunting cloud of silence when I hang the phone up, I have to answer that impossible-to-answer question.

“She’s hanging in there,” I always resort to saying. “She was supposed to go to trial in March, but she’s got this court appointed attorney who is less than motivated to find an impartial jury. So, unfortunately, there isn’t much going on with her case at the moment.”

When people ask me “How are you doing”, these days I just say “I’m doing,” because I know they really mean “What are you doing,” and I don’t have anything to report. I’m just waiting. Aren’t we all? Waiting for something to happen so we can tell people about it.

The waiting is worse for my mom because there is nothing to do in the tiny privately owned jail except wait. And watch. Watch television, watch people, watch the ones she calls friends leave for court and never return, and wait.

H1: A tight-lipped smile and a guilty conscience for crying after she hangs up will result in negative effects on both my mother and I. Neither of us will admit this to one another.

These rules were never explicitly outlined: force a smile every video call, and don’t you dare cry on the phone with her. I consider these to be common sense, yet my mom always tells me when she has to hang up on other people who made her upset by crying on the phone. It usually takes her a few days to muster up the courage to call them again. Masking is appropriate in this context, because the alternative is silence in my family, and I need to be the person who can help carry some of the weight so she never hesitates to call me.

“I don’t know what to do, Mikaela.” she says. “I don’t know when I’m going to get the hell out of this place, and your sister always asks when I’m getting out. I don’t know what to say anymore.”

My mission is to distract. Don’t stick to any conversation for too long. Always have a list of good things that happened that day ready to recite (but avoid bragging). The people who have the ability to call their moms when they’re feeling depressed, or bring up the state of their mental health casually in conversation—without causing their mom to lucid dream about the terrible things that could also be happening to her babies on the outside—are truly lucky. Any concerns about my life as an anxious, and suicidal hypochondriac are brought up with the first person to answer my Facetime call that morning. I usually try my sister first, then my best friend, and even my manager at work.

H2: Is it fair to die a little inside every time she has a new “best day ever” to tell me about?

For this question, we have to examine what that means for someone who has been in jail for over 1,000 days at this point. Typically there is one day that outshines the rest, but for my mom, any time she gets a salad with actual fruit on the side instead of a barely edible chicken pattie slapped onto a stale piece of bread with a side of applesauce, it’s Christmas morning.

“Well hello there, beautiful!” she said during our visit yesterday. “Jesus, it’s like Christmas in June!”

It’s still May. I don’t correct her. She doesn’t keep a calendar. She says she doesn’t need to count up the days that are being stolen from her. Everyone else uses them to count down the weeks until their trial dates. It’s been 3 years of administrative court and continuances for my mom, so I understand the aversion.

“I had 2 surprise visits, a ranch wrap with real ranch in it, and a bag of name-brand Lays potato chips!” she said. “We also got a whole banana each! I even scored an extra one off my friend who’s getting out tomorrow.”

“That sounds so damn good,” I said. “I kind of want a ranch wrap for dinner now.”

Our conversations are built on little white lies.