And it’s time for another visitors’ day—the show helpfully stage whispers that Bea has been in here for two months now—and who should show up but Debbie the Cherub, in the company of Brayden the Holt. Naturally, Bea is happy to see her daughter, but her joy is tempered by terror of Jaqs. She tries to warn Debbie to be safe, all “Don’t cross any streets, unless you got no choice. Don’t go out at night, unless you got no choice. Basically, zombie apocalypse rules. Oh and maybe think about investing in one of those inflatable sumo suits, and just wear that everywhere.”
But since Debbie lied and said she took the bus here, Bea doesn’t know to caution her against Brayden Malfoy.
Liz also has a visit from the friendly bureaucrat in charge of her parole. The lady informs her that her next hearing is in two weeks, and what with the peer worker program, she actually has a good shot at getting out. Instantly, Liz looks worried, which morphs into pure terror when the parole lady asks her where she’ll be staying once she is free. And with that, it’s time to delve into Liz’s memories, back from the days when everyone was standing directly under the hole in the ozone layer, I guess. As it turns out, Liz was the mother of two children and wife to a man with frankly astonishing facial hair.
But her closest relationship was with a bottle. At first she seems like a fun(ctional) alcoholic, but there is more to come.
The final prisoner with a visitor is Ronnie, a member of Jaqs’ crew. Her daughter comes to visit, though it’s clear Ronnie is more interested in what she’s carrying. Ronnie’s deal is: she has her kid swallow heroin and then eat laxative chocolates and poop it out during visits. And Ronnie’s kid’s deal is: she’ll never be your beast of burden/she skipped the chocolates, her tummy’s hurtin’.
The poor kid passes out and nearly dies, which sends Liz back to flashback land.
Liz’s family was finally forced to confront her alcoholism when her son got into the vodka she was hiding in a soda bottle. I think anyone who has ever known an alcoholic can relate to “the moment” where you have to call it what it is. It’s not always as dramatic as a child passed out on the floor; it can be finding booze hidden behind the hand towels under the bathroom sink, or it can be the desperation with which someone turns a bottle upside-down and shakes the last few drops into their mouth. And “the moment” in Liz’s story just aches with familiarity to anyone who has ever been there.