Page 35 of A Million To Fall

Good for them.

Social media’s nice. It makes me feel less alone somehow, like they’re still part of my life, even though I haven’t spoken to them in years. I also haven’t posted online since I left. Not that I have anything worth posting.

@b.rawls: Look, they served spaghetti casserole at the shelter today. #blessed

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Yeah, I think not.

Social media’s just recon now. Jake, Skye, Pacey, Jonathan, Lily. In that order. Sometimes even Archer, though I hate myself a little more each time I read his latest self-indulgent post. Smug fucking asshole.

I swipe through everyone’s pages, looking for news, gossip, anything. But they’re all living their lives, and none of those lives include updates on my family.

Next, I hit Stillwater’s local news site. The top headline makes my heart screech to a halt: Oak Park Heights Drug Bust Results in 19 Arrests; One Dead After Police Stand-Off.

My palms go clammy.

I tap on the article, skimming for names. Nothing familiar, but that doesn’t mean shit. I open a new tab then pull up the world’s most powerful search engine and type in: Susan Irene Rawlings, Stillwater, MN.

Boom.

First hit: a short article about the incident and my mom’s name listed among those arrested. Eddie’s is, too, I think. Well, there’s an Edward Mulvaney III, and I choose to believe it’s shithead. Better be.

I dive deeper, already searching for Stillwater’s arrest and inmate information. A few more clicks and I’m looking at a mugshot of my mom.

She looks tired. Faded. Her eyes are flat and hollowed out. The messy ponytail makes her look even older. She doesn’t look high—at least not in the photo. But she looks… broken.

I stare at the picture for a long time. Man, I still remember her dancing barefoot in the kitchen, my dad’s arms wrapped around her.

Her bail’s set at $25,000. That might as well be $25 million. No way that’ll get posted. Not by anyone I know. Not for her.

I scribble down the jail’s number, trying not to let anxiety eat away at me because, where the hell are my siblings?

I search their names for good measure, but nothing comes up. Not on social media. Not in any news article. Not a surprise. The press is usually mindful of disclosing the names of minors. Still, it doesn’t exactly settle my nerves.

I shut off my phone, wide awake. Sleep’s a distant idea at this point. I lean my head back against the seat, staring at the ceiling of the car, my home.

This wasn’t supposed to be my life.

sixteen

Boston

Thirty-six hours later, I’m handing my ID—the real one, I might add—to a police officer sitting behind a bullet-proof window.

The moment eight a.m. hit and I clocked out after my morning shift at the gym yesterday, I called the jail. The woman who answered informed me—in a cool tone—that my mom had been booked on March nineteenth at just after four in the morning and had since been transferred to the pretrial facility.

I admit, I felt like a total idiot navigating that conversation.

“I can take your name and number and pass it on to the facility,” the lady said. “Your mother can call you back if she chooses. Otherwise, you can schedule a visit.”

So I did both, which required me to call yet another number, speak to yet another officer, who told me that, conveniently, visitations for last names N through Z were today.

It took a few more calls to my various jobs to arrange time off, and an hour-and-a-half drive up from Rochester, but I’m finally closer to my family than I’ve been in years. The thought alone makes my heart beat double-time in my chest.

Well, that and the way that police officer’s studying my ID.

I blink, waiting for some kind of flag to come up on the computer. A missing person’s report, maybe. Anything to show someone ever gave a shit I was gone. But the deputy just stares at his screen with lidded eyes. Like there’s nothing remarkable about me. Obviously, nobody looked for me. Not even my mom.