The Roots of the Olive Tree by Courtney Miller Santo

with small oblong windows near the ceiling. There were dozens of children—all running and jumping around the room, their exuberant shouts made all the louder by the bare concrete floor and walls. Bets stiffened each time one of these children came near them. Erin understood that her great-grandmother didn’t think of Erin as a child any longer. And then she felt a surge of rage that she’d never had the chance to be one of these unruly children waiting to visit their mothers. These children, as lawless as they were, knew what she didn’t, and that knowledge gave them power far beyond their years. She was more a child than they were.
    When the guard called their name, Bets stood and nudged Erin toward the heavily guarded door that led outside to the courtyard. A female guard who looked to be about Callie’s age held the door open with her baton and reminded them that embraces were only allowed at the beginning and end of the visits. The midmorning sun had reached the valley floor and Erin was momentarily blinded by the light, which reflected off every inch of the metal fence and the rolls of razor wire that snaked around the tops of the fences, like ribbon curls on a birthday package. She blinked to clear the tears from her eyes and when she focused again, she found that Deb was standing in front of them. She looked nothing like her picture. She was thin and her skin had a waxy, sallow texture. She wore an oversize denim jumpsuit and her hair had been tightly bound into hundreds of small braids. It was still the color of a ripe olive, but it held none of the sheen that was present in the photographs.
    “Your mother sends her love,” said Bets, leaning in for the briefest of hugs. Erin wondered why Bets lied.
    “How is she?” asked Deb.
    “She’s fine, she’s working.”
    Erin wanted to say “She’s not working. She just didn’t want to come,” but instead, she extended her hand toward Deb. “I’m finally here.”
    Instead of shaking her outstretched hand, her mother clasped it with both her palms and squeezed gently. “I should have insisted that they let you come earlier, when you were smaller.” Her voice was low and the words had a vibration to them, as if they’d been hummed instead of spoken. All around them children climbed on their mothers and babies were being cradled. Erin sat next to Deb, but far enough away that their legs didn’t touch.
    In the weeks leading up to this trip, Erin had carefully planned her reaction to seeing her mother. She would be restrained, distant, even a little brisk if necessary. All of these intentions left her when Deb spoke. The vibration in her mother’s voice felt familiar, and almost instantly an energy sprung up between them that obliterated Erin’s hesitation. Deb fired question after question at Erin: Favorites? Turquoise, pearls, Anne of Green Gables, Backstreet Boys, math, linguini, chocolate, Sound of Music . Boys? Tommy Kilpatrick. Skateboards. When the questions stopped, Erin was almost dizzy—it was not often she’d ever been the center of attention.
    Bets coughed, and although Erin couldn’t be sure, she felt that her great-grandmother was clearing a sob from her throat. After that, Bets began to brag about Erin’s accomplishments. She said that Erin’s algebra teacher was convinced that she could be an engineer and that she’d been the only freshman with a speaking role in the musical. They talked about her singing and that her voice coach was sure she’d be able to get a scholarship to Berklee or Juilliard or anyplace she wanted to go. This chitchat continued and then it slid into what her grandmothers always talked about when they ran out of words—the olives, the weather. It was always the same, sound for the sake of not sitting in silence. Erin couldn’t stand it. She couldn’t bear for a moment to be wasted talking about the number of buds per branch.
    “Why did you shoot my father?”
    Deb squinted hard at Erin and then turned her back