A Little Too Much by Lisa Desrochers

in the lockers, walk through the metal detector, sign in, show my ID, sign the paper that says I don’t have any contraband on me and I agree to be searched, then wait.
    Mom has to agree to see me.
    Ten minutes later they tell me I’m good to go and let me into the visitor room. I take one of the dollars I kept in my pocket to the vending machine and buy an Oh Henry! then find a spot at an empty table near the back of the room.
    When she comes through the door, she shuffles over to my table in an orange jumpsuit that hangs off her. She literally drops into the chair across from me, like the act of sitting down takes too much effort. Her cheeks are hollow caves, her skin is patchy and dry, and her long red hair is in a messy, low ponytail with stringy strands hanging loose into her sunken, dull green eyes. I swear every time I see her, she looks five years older. She’s not even fifty yet, but she could pass for one hundred.
    Or maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s because, in my head, I always see her how she was before she killed that guy and got sent here.
    She reaches for the Oh Henry! and peels back the wrapper, biting off a hunk and glancing deliberately at the caged clock on the wall. “You made it,” she rasps in her smoker’s voice.
    It’s always the first thing she says, like I’ve kept her waiting.
    “Yep.”
    She swallows and bites another hunk off the candy bar. A little piece of chocolate sticks to the corner of her mouth and starts to melt. “So how’s McDermott’s?”
    Always the second thing she asks. I think maybe she used to go there.
    “Good. Jerry is behaving himself for now.”
    She crams the last bite in her mouth. “Tips good?”
    Always the third thing.
    I shrug. “Up and down. Seems like people are getting cheaper. Weekends are usually decent.”
    “How is that sister of yours?”
    And, always number four.
    “She’s good.”
    “Still married?”
    I slouch deeper into my chair. “She hasn’t gotten divorced in the month since I saw you, if that’s what you’re asking.”
    “And Harry and Max?”
    Every.
    Freaking.
    Time.
    Considering her favorite candy bar is Oh Henry! you’d think she’d be able to remember her grandson’s name. “Henri, not Harry, and they’re good too. Getting big. Halloween was last night. They were adorable.”
    She frowns, which really isn’t all that different from her usual expression. “I’d know that if I ever saw them.”
    “Yeah, well . . .” It’s the same guilt trip I get every time I come, like it’s somehow my fault Mallory’s never comes to see Mom. I don’t tell Mallory when I’m coming because she forbade me to see Mom when I was living with her. I doubt she’d feel different now. She told me a long time ago to forget about Mom. Mallory blames Mom for everything that happened to me at the group home and after. So do I, I guess, but there’s no changing it, so I don’t see the point in holding a grudge.
    The truth is, I know it’s probably a waste of time coming here. I know I shouldn’t bother. I mean, it’s not like Mom ever really bothered with me. I was just an inconvenience most of the time. I don’t know if she wanted me or not, but once she got me, she didn’t really seem to care one way or the other. Indifference smarts, coming from the one person who’s supposed to love you unconditionally.
    But for better or for worse, she’s my mom—the only parent I’ve ever had. So even though a big part of me is screaming that I should forget about her, there’s a smaller voice that comes from somewhere in my DNA compelling me to keep digging for something deeper—like if I try hard enough, maybe she’ll love me despite herself.
    Mom leans forward, resting her elbows on the table, and splays both hands across her face to hold her head up, like it suddenly weighs a thousand pounds. “You should make like your sister and steer clear of me. I was never any good for you girls.”
    I squirm a little in my seat, uncomfortable