Most sessions are family members tearfully sobbing as the inmate looks on, helpless to do more than awkwardly pat their hands. After the first depressing visit, it took a long time before I returned again. The detached coldness of the prison haunted me. I would feign sickness or school events, dreading the whole system. Now, waiting on the hard plastic at a scarred table, I twist uncomfortably as I sit.
Nervous and fidgeting, I stare at the door, my legs tapping loudly on the tile. Sometimes it takes only a few minutes for a guard to lead him in, but sometimes it’s an hour.
Before he glimpses me, I watch him, head down, hunched, shuffling his feet, eyes trained on the floor. As soon as he passes the threshold, his eyes, the same blue as mine, dart around the room until he spots me.
Then he becomes human.
His shoulders straighten and his footsteps can’t speed up, but they stop dragging as he waits for the guard, who is settling in at the podium to watch the room, to give him permission to move forward and away from him.
Dressed in dark-blue pants and a gray cotton tee, he looks from the front like a maintenance man at any jobsite. When he turns around, the back of his shirt has his inmate number emblazoned across it, the only giveaway he’s a prisoner.
Wobbly, I stand, my eyes searching his face, his eyes a couple shades lighter than mine. Steadily, the light returns to his pupils, not as bright as they used to be, but a glimmer of hope’s still powering them. He has aged but in a tired way—not weathered from too much sun, but timeworn. He never talks about what happens here. I try not to imagine what he goes through on a daily basis, and he never offers it up.
“Elle.” He gives me a quick kiss on the cheek and a longer hug, and his tall, lanky frame holds me tightly for a few seconds. I can feel him sniff the scent of my hair, and he murmurs in my ear his childhood nickname for me again, “Lovebug.” His own smell is a toss-up between cigarettes and hickory. I know he’s been taking classes in the shop, learning another trade. He says he wants to try carpentry when he’s out—a perfect fit with his skills.
“Sit down.” He motions to the table I just stood from. I switch seats, since each prisoner must face the front so the guards can see them.
“Dad.” I say it in a way that causes his ears to perk up, but not in a good way.
“What is it?” He leans forward, his arms resting on the table, since his hands must be visible at all times. His skin is pale from a lack of sunlight, and dark circles have formed permanent pouches under his eyes.
“How much longer?”
“My appeal wasn’t granted.”
“S-so . . . ,” I stammer. “This is it?”
“At least for a few more years.”
“Dad, I can’t . . .” I shove my knuckle in my mouth.
I hate crying in front of him. There’s nothing he can do, no comfort he can give, even sitting across the table from me.
“’Bug.” His eyes beg me to stop as he quickly reaches forward to swipe at my cheek before anyone notices. “You know I want nothing more than to get out to you.”
“Will it be different this time?”
“Of course.” He hangs his head ashamedly. “I’ve been sober for almost a decade. I know I screwed up your childhood.”
I hold my arm out in front of me. “Do you remember this, Daddy?” He watches as I turn my wrist over, revealing the harsh red discoloration.
“It looks like some type of burn or scar.”
“Do you know how I got this?”
He shakes his head. “Was it a fall on your bicycle?”
“Nope.”
“You burn yourself on the oven making mac and cheese?”
“Not quite.”
He shrugs. “I give up.”
“Remember how you always carried your wallet and a pocketknife with you, always in the back pocket of your Wranglers or Levis?” He nods. “One day you left it in the truck, and I was playing with it. I used it to give a haircut to one of my dolls. Ah, yes, my Baby Bridget doll.”
“And you accidentally cut yourself?” he finishes for me.
“Close.” I shudder, my finger tracing the scar. “You were upset because the doll had a pile of blonde hair lying on your seat when you came out of the store. Mad I used your knife and mad I destroyed my doll, you said you would show me what playing with sharp objects did to real people, in real life.”
I hold it up closer to his face so he can inspect it.
“I was six.”
He shuts his eyes for a moment, then opens them, both blurry.
“I failed you as a parent, but I’m still your father.”
“Do you understand why it’s hard to believe you didn’t hurt her?”
“Elizabeth . . .” He tries to gently push me back into my seat, but I’m done for the day, emotionally drained.
“No, I can’t,” I cry.
“This is why I want to be free, so I can show you I’ve changed, reined in my temper, and obviously quit the bottle. Drinking did me no favors. I want a new beginning for us, Lovebug. You have to help me so I can help us.” He lowers his voice. “But we need new evidence. Fresh evidence. Or better yet, someone to change their mind.”
“The evidence doesn’t change, does it?”
“No, but it’s all perception. Witnesses can change their mind, or their story . . .”
“And then what?”
“I need you to do something.” He reaches for my hand, then pulls back as the guard issues a warning directed at him over the loudspeaker. “I need you to—”
Abruptly I hold my hand up, interrupting. The news I have to tell him I want to swallow permanently in my throat. It might change his attitude toward sending me to college and putting a roof over my head. I’m worried I’ll lose the courage to say it out loud if I don’t at this very second. “I have to tell you something.”
“Okay.”
“It’s . . . it’s heavy.”
His eyes pry into mine, and I can’t help but break contact to stare at the table next to us, where a tearful Hispanic woman is sobbing.
“Elizabeth, whatever it is, I can handle it.”
“I’m just glad we’re in a roomful of people,” I whisper under my breath.
“What did you say?” he asks, wounded. “You’re glad about what?”
“Nothing.” I see the hurt written on his face as he slumps in his chair.
I open my mouth to tell him the truth when a loud screech disturbs the room. It sounds like a chair’s being dragged across the floor, followed by a popping sound. I push myself out of my seat and instantly hit my head against the tabletop as I duck for cover.
Terrified, I dart my eyes around the room, searching for the cause of the interruption, scared someone has a gun or other weapon. Face to face with my dad underneath the table, I hear him whisper, “I hate to even ask this, but she’s our only option.”
A voice comes on over the loudspeaker, booming instructions, ordering the prisoners to line up against the wall and the visitors to congregate against the other side.
“You want me to find her?” Shocked, I then add, “She won’t want to see me.”
“We have no other choice. She’s the only one who can help.”