Chapter 9 - LORRAINE ASKED CAMILLE TO VISIT HER IN PRISON
The request came eighteen months after the birthday party.
Lorraine had served nearly a year.
Minimum-security federal facility in Alabama.
Camille stared at the letter.
Andre did not pressure.
“You don’t have to go.”
“I know.”
“You don’t owe her.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you thinking?”
Camille looked at him.
They were living separately still.
Dating.
Therapy.
Trust rebuilding.
“Because I’m curious.”
Andre almost smiled.
“Terrible reason.”
“Usually.”
Camille went.
Alone except for required security outside.
Lorraine looked older.
Gray hair untreated.
Plain prison uniform.
No pearls.
No audience.
They sat across from each other.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Lorraine said:
“You gained weight.”
Camille stared.
Lorraine closed her eyes.
“God.”
Camille almost laughed.
“You had one job.”
“I know.”
Then Lorraine laughed too.
Unexpected.
Small.
Embarrassed.
“I’ve been working on that.”
“Clearly.”
Lorraine looked at her.
“I’m sorry.”
“For that sentence?”
“For many.”
Camille waited.
Lorraine had written apology letters before.
Never this face-to-face.
“I hated your calm.”
Camille frowned.
“Why?”
“Because I thought it was superiority.”
“It wasn’t.”
“I know.”
“I thought every nice thing you did was strategy.”
“Why?”
Lorraine looked down.
“Because mine usually was.”
There.
Self-awareness.
“I remembered birthdays because information created loyalty.”
“I gave gifts because gifts created obligation.”
“I hosted charity events because donors created influence.”
Lorraine swallowed.
“Then you remembered Andre’s cake because he mentioned his father once.”
Camille’s throat tightened.
“That made me furious.”
“Why?”
“Because you loved him without calculating return.”
Silence.
“And I didn’t know how.”
Camille felt sorrow.
Not absolution.
Lorraine continued:
“I loved my son.”
“I know.”
“I still do.”
“I know.”
“But I used fear to keep him close.”
“Yes.”
“I thought if he became independent, I disappeared.”
Camille asked:
“Do you still think that?”
Lorraine looked around.
Prison room.
“I disappeared anyway.”
Hard.
Then:
“And he visits.”
Camille blinked.
Andre had not told her.
“Once every two months.”
“Why?”
“He says because I’m his mother.”
Lorraine’s eyes filled.
“He doesn’t bring business.”
“Doesn’t ask permission.”
“Doesn’t let me insult you.”
Camille almost smiled.
“Sounds healthy.”
“It’s exhausting.”
They both laughed.
Then Lorraine became serious.
“I want to apologize for the riding crop.”
Camille’s shoulder tightened reflexively.
Lorraine saw.
That mattered.
“I hit you.”
“Yes.”
“In public.”
“Yes.”
“Because I wanted to humiliate you.”
“Yes.”
“I wanted Andre to watch.”
Camille’s eyes hardened.
Lorraine continued:
“I wanted to prove that if I forced a choice, he would still obey me.”
There.
The ugliest truth.
“And he did.”
“For a few seconds.”
Camille’s voice stayed steady.
“You are not allowed to use his trauma to reduce what you did.”
Lorraine nodded.
“I know.”
“I assaulted you.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
Camille looked at her.
“Thank you.”
Lorraine’s eyes filled.
“Do you forgive me?”
Camille breathed.
“Some days.”
That surprised Lorraine.
“What?”
“Some days I think I do.”
“Some days I remember the sound.”
“The room.”
“His face.”
“Then no.”
Lorraine nodded.
“That’s fair.”
Good.
Then:
“Are you going back to Andre?”
Camille almost laughed.
“Still controlling.”
“I’m curious.”
“He’s my husband.”
“I know.”
“We’re dating.”
Lorraine stared.
“You’re dating your husband.”
“Yes.”
“That sounds absurd.”
“It is.”
Lorraine smiled faintly.
“Does it work?”
“Maybe.”
For the first time, Lorraine did not tell her what to do.
Progress.
Before Camille left, Lorraine handed her a folded piece of paper.
Prison-approved.
A recipe.
Pecan-praline cake.
David’s original.
Camille stared.
“Why?”
“Andre thinks he has the right one.”
“He doesn’t.”
Camille almost smiled.
Lorraine continued:
“I changed the sugar ratio when he was sixteen because David’s cholesterol was terrible.”
“That’s why mine tasted different.”
“Yes.”
“Andre always said Dad’s was less sweet.”
Camille laughed.
“Of course.”
Lorraine’s eyes filled.
“Make it for him.”
Camille hesitated.
Then took it.
Not reconciliation.
A recipe.
Sometimes healing arrived in unimpressive forms.
That night, Andre came to Camille’s apartment.
She gave him the paper.
He stared.
“Where?”
“Your mother.”
“You went?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“My decision.”
He stopped.
Then nodded.
Right.
“What happened?”
Camille told him.
Not everything.
Some belonged to her.
Then the recipe.
Andre laughed.
“She changed Dad’s recipe.”
“Yes.”
“That woman.”
“You’re shocked she controlled cake?”
“Fair.”
Silence.
Then Andre looked at Camille.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
No interrogation.
Then:
“Can I stay?”
Camille looked at him.
They had not slept in the same bed since she left the estate.
Dates.
Kisses.
Occasional intimacy stopped before that line.
She thought.
Choice.
“Yes.”
Andre exhaled.
That night did not magically repair marriage.
No cinematic promise.
They simply slept.
Andre on his side.
Camille on hers.
At four in the morning, she woke with his hand near hers but not touching.
He had left space even asleep.
Camille moved her fingers into his.
Andre woke.
Looked.
May you like
Didn’t speak.
Neither needed to.
