Yesterday's Tomorrows

Chapter 1

(Present day)

Maddy

"Sign here."

I fought to control the trembling in my fingers as I signed my name next to the 'X' on the official-looking form and slid the paper back to the officer processing my release.

Sweet freedom.

The day I longed for, and wondered if it would ever arrive, was finally here.

"Here you go." The bored tone in the guard's gravelly voice, probably from too many smokes a day, suggested my big day was just another in a long string for him.

He slid a white envelope across the scratched wood counter. "That came for you a short while ago."

I studied the front. "For Madelyn Stone" was typed on the outside.

It must be from Mr. McCloskey, my new attorney and now my new boss. I slid my finger under the flap and pulled out a single sheet of notebook paper. Immediately, I scrolled to the bottom of the page, but I didn't need to see the signature to know who wrote it; I recognized the handwriting immediately – Charly's. I shoved it back at him as if it might be toxic. "I don't want it."

"Not my problem." He stamped the papers in front of him and shoved one of them along with the unwanted envelope at me. "Officer Warren will be here momentarily to escort you to the front. You can wait over there." He gestured with a careless flick of his hand toward a row of faded orange plastic chairs that looked like they were at least as old as I was.

I inwardly rolled my eyes, but always the model prisoner, I held my tongue and gathered up the paperwork and the unwanted envelope and sat and waited.

Funny how in my childhood I never realized just how many freedoms I enjoyed until every moment of my day became dictated to me: what I wore, when I ate, when I exercised, what time lights were turned off. All small things that you don't appreciate until they're gone.

Sweet freedom.

Growing up, it was understood that most of us wouldn't stray too far from where we were born. Nice homes, new school clothes every year, college dreams - those were for the kids on the other side of the tracks. Literally. The white-collar side of our community held the monopoly on lucky breaks. They were the kids who could get out of small town living if they chose. My side sported saw mills and pawn shops and a healthy dose of 'don't fix what ain't broke.' Bars and sagging porches were the place of choice to remember how good it used to be, but not to make changes or upset the balance of the way things were.

I tried to be polite and respectful of everyone around me, but my family name seemed to mark me. At a young age, I recognized the snotty tone and arrogant lift of eyebrow that accompanied comments whenever I walked down the sidewalk and passed a group of busybodies congregated for whatever reason. The more sympathetic observers whispered behind their hands, but I could still overhear what they were saying. 'Poor child. It's such a shame about her situation.' 'I guess she can't help her circumstances.' 'Thank goodness her mother isn't here to see them.'

Others were less kind, maliciously sharing gossip and judgments as if they were popping them from a Pez dispenser. 'Did you hear the latest about her father?' 'It won't be long before she'll be just like her sister.' 'I guess that's what comes from her kind of people.'

My kind of people? Until that comment, I had always thought everyone was one kind of people. We all came in a variety of shapes, sizes, and colors, but I thought that made us a beautiful bouquet, like those I'd seen in one of the store windows downtown. But that day I came to realize there were weeds hidden in the flowers, and if you didn't know what to look for it was easy to be deceived by their appearance. Some blooms even looked and smelled nice, but deep down they were still parasites, feeding off of and trying to choke out other smaller flowers. I knew my family was far from perfect, but why did I always have to be compared to them and their poor choices?