“Will she want to hurt me?”
“No.” He pats my hand. “Me, yes, but not you.” He adds, “She blames me. Not you.”
“Line up.” A burly guard taps his steel-toed boot in the back of my dad’s shirt, motioning him to stand. “Visiting hours are over.”
After climbing out from underneath the table, I see that the free and the confined have never been more interchangeable. I watch him line up as I join the other group, our faces helpless as we watch our loved ones disappear behind glass and steel.
This isn’t the first time something like this has happened. A couple months ago, it was someone bringing in contraband that resulted in visiting hours being terminated. Today it’s a skinny white guy held in cuffs as an even skinnier woman holds her hand to her nose, blood trickling down her chin. She’s being ushered to the prison hospital by a guard.
Did she cheat? Ask for a divorce? Find out he had another lover?
My dad mouths “I love you” across the room to me as he’s handcuffed and led out by the guards to head back to his cell. Our conversation’s unfinished, just as our lives have become one interrupted communication after another in the form of sporadic letters and impersonal visits.
There is so much I know about him but so much I don’t.
As I walk back to Diane and the waiting car, I realize that I got out of sharing my news with him. Instead of relief, I feel cheated, the same way I did when I found out he was being sentenced to twenty years and would no longer be a constant part of my life.
I remind myself it’s no different than it was before.
CHAPTER 2
Charlotte
It’s late afternoon, and the last of the Kansas sun disappears at the same time as the final drops in my glass of pinot noir. After I tilt the bottle to pour another, the few remaining drops settle into the bottom of my stemware.
Shaking my head at my ability to drink copious quantities of wine in record time and mourning the loss of another bottle, I toss it into the recycling bin with a bang.
A shrill ring interrupts my present task in the kitchen, and I squeeze the dough harder than intended, darting my eyes to the phone. If I were talking to a millennial, they’d be abhorred at the old-fashioned monstrosity that belongs in a museum but hangs like a prized trophy from the wall. My English-lit pupils at the local community college can’t believe I have a landline, and furthermore when I mention forgoing email for handwritten letters, they groan in protest.
Dare I answer?
The thrum in my chest signals that my heart rate’s rising, the beats per minute spiking me up toward panic mode. I have a love-hate relationship with the phone, not only because I inevitably have to use it to communicate but also because I dread the voice on the other end.
Deep breaths, take deep breaths, and don’t hyperventilate, I remind myself. My therapist advised me to find an object to focus on, and the sliminess of the raw dough beneath my hand is the first thing I notice.
Frozen in place, I don’t move to check the caller ID.
After a couple more bursts of energy, the phone shudders to a stop as the voice mail picks up. I exhale at the same time as her singsong tone echoes through the kitchen.
“Charlotte, it’s me. It’s been a long time, and I need to speak to you. It’s urgent. I’m coming to see you since you never return any of my calls, but I’m torn on whether I should pay the college a visit or your house. Let me know which one works.”
The line goes dead.
Shutting my eyes, I grip the smooth surface of the counter, hanging on for dear life.
Just erase it.
I roll my eyes. She’ll never come here, she doesn’t exist, and she can’t hurt you. I repeat the mantra over and over in a whisper, the words slipping out of my mouth as I enunciate every single one of them.
A loud beep interrupts my practiced speech.
I jump.
The oven. The oven is ready but the cookies aren’t.
Turning back to the dough, I twist the pliable mounds into whatever shape I want, which I was unable to do with her. The word manipulate comes to mind, and I squish the formed circle into the butcher block with a vengeance.
Sighing at the lumpy pile, I start over, carefully this time.
I’m arranging the batch of cookies on a metal baking sheet when a threatening rattle shakes the french doors. It breaks my concentration, confirming the impending rain predicted in an earlier forecast.
A warning crack of thunder shakes me from the nagging feeling of unease. After pulling the sheer cream curtains aside, I gaze out from the kitchen to the back deck.
The large pine and spruce trees are planted close to one another in the backyard, creating the illusion of a miniature forest. Usually their shade and soundproofing are welcome, blocking out noise from the bustling traffic. Right now, they are ominous shadows reaching their limbs out violently to snag anything in their path.
Shaking my head, I laugh like a hyena at the vision of being strangled by a savage tree trunk. Then, turning my attention to the cookie sheet, I nimbly open the double oven to slide the tray in the rack, attempting to emulate my mother.
The only dilemma: I can never reproduce the comfort I yearn for inside the house, as much as I try. If only she were seated at the oversize kitchen island, sharing a glass of cold milk and conversation.
I’m startled by a flash across the sky that causes the light bulbs to flicker simultaneously. Nervous, I eyeball the oil-rubbed bronze pendant above me. After striding across the polished concrete floor, I hold my breath as I jiggle the french doors, ensuring they are locked up tight.
An emergency-weather kit is stored in the pantry, and I promptly remove the yellow flashlight, the hard plastic comforting in my hand. The batteries might be old, so I test the flashlight to make sure it’s in working order. Light floods the room, and, relieved, I settle the items on the counter, just in case.
Tilting my head, I remember that the television’s on in the living room, but there’s no noise or chatter. Did I turn it off?
And is the dead bolt in place on the front door?
I can’t remember doing either. Mentally, I retrace my steps as I tap my fingers restlessly on the counter. I could swear I left the television on, the noise typically a welcome distraction.
After making contact with the butcher block that’s near the stove, I carefully pull out a long knife, the longest and sharpest one we have. Slowly, I tiptoe toward the opposite side of the house, holding my breath.
A long sigh of relief escapes my lips as I confirm that the heavy front door is closed, my fingers running over the dead bolt and the lock, just to be sure.
You can never be too careful.
I keep the butcher knife near my side for protection.
The television hangs over the fireplace, and the word mute blinks in the corner of the screen. I unmute it just as an announcement breaks through the scheduled programming. “The National Weather Service has issued a severe-thunderstorm warning for Sedgwick County. Potential damage can and will be caused by hail, strong winds, and flash flooding. We suggest drivers stay off the road if at all possible. Meteorologists have advised that a potential tornado watch could be issued. Stay tuned for further updates.”
Shuddering, I wrap my arms around myself in a soothing gesture, rubbing the prickly goose bumps. Storms are another fear at the top of my expanding and never-ending list. I move toward the blind-covered windows, sliding them open to peek out into the now-darkened sky. Rain clouds have appeared out of nowhere, obscuring the light as if they have been drawn, angry and foreboding, directly over the rays of sunshine. One minute I’m staring into a cerulean sky, and now the world is plunged into blackness under low clouds.