still thinks it. I can see it in her eyes sometimes when she looks at me. It makes me wonder if she wishes I was the one cursed with a disability.
‘Well merry Christmas everyone,’ I say in order to banish the negative thoughts from my mind. ‘And let’s hope we have many, many more.’
I get up from the sofa and walk over to my brother to give him a kiss on the cheek. Then I turn to my mother and give her a hug.
She pats my back affectionately and says, ‘Thank God you’re getting your life together at last, Lizzie. That little boy has changed you for the better. For his sake you have to follow a righteous path from now on. No more drugs and drink. No more consorting with unreliable men. Stay on the path and all will be well.’
I woke up with my mother’s words ringing in my ears. The memory of that Christmas Day was still vivid and I often dreamt about it. We all had such a great time and we were like a normal family again.
I’d been full of optimism back then, and I’d even dared to hope that my mother was beginning to think I wasn’t such a wretched daughter after all.
But, of course, I should have known better than to believe that things would turn out well for me, especially given the fact that I never did stick to that righteous path.
I didn’t want to get out of bed. I would have been content to lie there for the rest of the day, making love to Scar and slipping in and out of sleep.
But there were things to do. People to see. So I forced myself up and into the bathroom for another shower.
It still felt weird to have freedom of movement. In my head I’d been conditioned to the monotonous routine of prison life. Not having to ask for permission to do things would take some getting used to.
I wondered what it was like for lifers when they were tossed back into society after so many years inside. How the hell did they cope? Did they ever settle back into a normal rhythm? Or did they struggle to adjust until the day they died?
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