Page 39 of The River Is Waiting

Again, he nods. “Have you formed any friendships since you’ve been here?”

“Friendships? Not really. Well, one or two, I guess.”

He asks me several more questions. Then he stands up, says he has what he needs and that he’s enjoyed our conversation.

Our conversation? It’s felt more like an inquisition. I decide to go for broke. “So what’s the verdict?”

He says he’s going to put me down as a short-term EDP. When I ask him what that means, he says it’s an acronym for “emotionally disturbed person.” The good news, he says, is that he considers my agitated emotional state to have been short-term and that I don’t present any signs of being an imminent danger to myself.

“Okay. So what happens next?”

“Well, I’m ordering your release from observation. And I’m going to put you on some medication that should help you with your anxiety.”

I wince a little, undetectably, I hope. “What kind?”

“One of the benzodiazepines. There are several: Xanax, Librium, Ativan. Do you have a history of taking any of those?”

I tell him no. An addict’s first instinct is to lie and his second instinct is to justify the deceit. If all you get in prison is this hit-and-run psychiatriccare by a shrink who takes your word for it rather than checking your record, then you’re being handed a gift—an opportunity.

“Okay, I’ll write you a script for Xanax.” He picks up his stool. “Good luck, Mr. Ledbetter.” He knocks on the door and waits for the CO to unlock it.

I want so badly for him to leave that I start to shake. But hisnotleaving yet is an opportunity, too. The Big Book says we can only be saved if we practice “rigorous honesty.” I made a promise to Emily that I’d stay clean. How will I be able to sit across from her in the visiting room andnotconfess that I’m back on benzos? If I have any hope of fighting against what my addiction has cost us, I need to keep that promise because getting hooked again would dishonor our marriage and our dead son.

I hear the key in the lock. The door opens. “No, wait,” I say. “Don’t write that prescription.”

Blankenship raises his eyebrows. “Why not? I think it can help you.”

“No. No thanks. I don’t want to take it. I’m good.”

“You sure? All right then. Your call.”

When they let me out of the observation cell an hour later, I’m given a pair of scrubs to wear on my way back to B Block. That CO, O’Brien, is back behind the desk where patients check in and out. “Do I have to wait for an escort?” I ask.

He smiles and shakes his head. “Go on, get out of here. B Block, right? I’ll radio them to expect you. Take care of yourself.”

“Yeah, thanks. Hey, can you tell me what time it is?” He says it’s two thirty-five. “And what day is it?” It’s Monday, he says. I thank him again.

Walking out of the building into a bright late-summer day, I feel a lightness in my step the likes of which I’ve not experienced here at Yates. Maybe it’s relief that I’ve been released from that medieval dungeon or maybe it’s because I’ve mustered the strength to resist getting back on that hamster wheel of dependence on benzos. My sobriety has held.

When I enter Block B, I pass the weight room, where the same guys are lifting, spotting, and doing crunches to take control ofsomething. I take the stairs a couple at a time. Walking into Cell 3-E, I wonder for afew seconds whether I’m in the wrong place. Pug’s TV is gone and so are his posters, replaced by ones of Donna Summer, Lady Gaga, and Kermit the Frog waving a rainbow flag.

I look from the posters to the familiar face that appears in the top bunk. Apparently, it’s no longer mine. “Hey there, roomie,” Manny says. “Welcome back to the living.” When I ask him what’s going on, he fills me in on what I’ve missed.

Pug is gone, transferred out of here, he says. Opening and examining inmates’ mail was part of CO McGreavy’s job. He discovered that Pug was on the receiving end of unmarked bulletins from Vanguard America and the East Coast Knights of the True Invisible Empire. In addition to confiscating these materials, McGreavy let it be known to a couple of Black inmates he’s friendly with that Pug was getting this White Power crap. Two days ago, while Pug was walking back to the block after work, someone shoved him to the ground and whacked him in the face so hard that it broke some of his teeth and deadened an eye. McGreavy is heading up the investigation, but so far the assailant hasn’t been identified. According to the rumors that have been circulating, the weapon used against Pug was a sock with three tins of mackerel inside it. Pug was moved to protective custody, then transferred yesterday to Northwest CI.

My sheets, pillow, and blanket have been moved to the bottom bunk. The bed is made. Two pieces of mail have been placed on my pillow. I open the one from my mother first. It contains the welcome news that my phone and commissary accounts have been set up and that she has deposited one hundred dollars in each. She also has contacted my father and gotten a promise from him that he will match these amounts. “Can’t wait to talk with you and find out how things are going,” Mom has written.

The other letter takes me by surprise. It’s from Dr. Patel. She writes that, because she was a visiting psychologist at Yates, “I know from my former patients how challenging prison life can be, especially in the earlyweeks.” She is writing, she says, to offer me a few simple suggestions that she hopes will help me as I transition to institutional life.

First, Corby, try as best you can to live in the present, not the past or the future. Don’t allow yourself to become too preoccupied with the tragic circumstances that have led to your imprisonment. What’s done is done and cannot be changed. Likewise, you should not allow yourself to become too focused on what might happen after you’re released. Doing so will rob you of the energy you need to get through each day in real time.

Secondly, you will have a more positive experience in prison if you respect the mind/body connection. Avoid the processed foods available from the commissary; sugar, saturated fats, and carbohydrates may provide short-term satisfaction, but they can affect your moods in negative ways. Exercise as often as you can and reap the benefits of fresh air and sunshine whenever they are available. Keep your mind engaged and active through reading. It can guard against lapses of negative thinking and offer you a temporary escape from your restrictive environment.

Finally, my friend, do keep busy. There are many jobs available to inmates at Yates. Look around and find work that you might enjoy. Toward that end, I have an idea. One of my friends when I worked there was the prison librarian, Fagie Millman. She is a positive person and would be a wonderful work supervisor if she has positions available. I will email her and ask her to be on the lookout for you should you have any interest in working a library job, but you should feel no pressure if my idea doesn’t suit you.

In closing, I ask you to think about this: every person who enters prison must make the choice of moving toward the dark or the light. Many people who are serving time further imprison themselves with dark thoughts and dark deeds, but both paths are available to you. Seek the light, dear Corby. Move toward the light.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

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