Page 48 of The River Is Waiting

“No such thing as privacy at this place. I learned that the first day I got here when they strip-searched me. Oh, hey, before I forget, in one of the letters you haven’t gotten yet, I ask you for a favor. Could you go on Amazon and order me a sketchbook and some charcoal drawing sticks—the skinny ones? I was thinking about drawing some cartoons for Maisie, maybe making them into a story for her.”

“That’s a great idea,” she says.

“And when you order them, have them shipped right to the prison. They won’t let you carry in something when you visit or send a package from a home address. It has to be sent directly from the retailer. And don’t send me a sketchbook with one of those spiral binders. They’ll deny it because of the metal. You’d be surprised how creative some of the guys in here can get if—”

And that’s it. Cut off without any goodbyes or I-love-yous. When your ten minutes are up, they’re up.

So why is she seeing Dr. Patel? That time we went for grief counseling, she was negative about her. I wanted to keep going—Ididkeep going—but Emily opted out. I remember at the end of that first session when Dr. Patel asked her what she hoped to get out of therapy if we continued. Em said she wanted to get clear about whether or not she could find a way to forgive me—and that if she couldn’t, she didn’t think our marriage could survive. Is that what this appointment is about? Is that why she doesn’t pick up half the times I call? Is she leaning toward divorcing me? I have a sinking feeling that’s what it is. And if I’m right, how’s that going to affect my relationship with Maisie? Emily won’t let me see her while I’m here. What happens if, when I finally get out of here, I’m a virtual stranger to my daughter? Whether she divorces me or not, I’m still Maisie’s father. Emily can’t deny that.

PART THREE:A Simple Stone

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

August 2018

Day 367 of 1,095

I flip the calendar page and do the math in my head: 1,095 minus 367 equals 728 more days to go before I can reclaim my life—some version of it anyway.

I think back to how scared and confused I was a year ago. Those first weeks were brutal: the taunts, the isolation, my fear and distrust of everyone, including my cellmate, Pug. I knew I deserved to be here, but I didn’t think I could survive in this place for three years. Suicide seemed like the only other option. A few months ago, I found out how they knew my plan: Manny had predicted it and gone to Lieutenant Cavagnero. Had I known this at the time, I would have been furious about his butting in. Now I’m grateful.

As I acclimated to my strange new surroundings, things got easier. I kept my head down, learned the system and the culture, got out of my own head so much. There’s plenty of cruelty going on inside this place, but no one’s targeted me in any significant way and Manny, as irritating as he can be sometimes, is a friend.

In the past twelve months, I’ve weathered the soul-crushing boredom of institutional lockdowns, a bedbug infestation on our tier, witnessing the stabbing of one inmate by another on the walkway, and, worst of all, the inability to see Maisie. My two most difficult days in here were April 27,the first anniversary of Niko’s death, and March 30, the twins’ birthday. Maisie turned three that day and Niko remained the age he’d been the day he died: twenty-five months. I called Emily both days to commiserate, but she didn’t pick up.

I’ve tried as much as possible in the past year to heed the advice Dr. Patel gave me in that letter she sent: exercise the body and the mind. I’ve been faithful to my workout routine and kept a list of the books I’ve read—twenty-three of them. I’ve “moved toward the light” by attending thirty-seven AA or NA meetings, plus ninety-minute classes on meditation and yoga. No luck getting a job yet, but I keep checking at the library. There’s still one guy ahead of me on the waiting list. I’ve been less successful in following Dr. Patel’s advice to live in the present. I can’t always stop my memory from replaying that morning: Niko watching the ants, my innocuous chat with the McNallys, my hand shifting the car into reverse. Nor can I always stop from imagining best- and worst-case scenarios about what happens when I finally walk out of here in another 728 days.

But one year’s been served. I can’t lose sight of that.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

September 2018

Day 409 of 1,095

The intercom clicks on. What now?

“Ledbetter?”

“Yeah?”

“You’ve got a visit. I’ll buzz you out.”

Is it Emily? If so, it will only be the fourth time she’s come to see me. But it’s Thursday. The other times have all been on the weekend. I doubt she’d drive here on a school night. Plus, she would have been away from Maisie all day. It’s probably my mom again; she tries to get here every few weeks. God, I hope it’s not my father. He cried that day in court when they handcuffed me and took me away, but he hasn’t visited or written to me once since I’ve been here. Okay, so much the better. The last thing I need to see is his look of disdain as he surveys the room, taking in where all my failures have landed me.

Walking along the connecting bridge from our block to the visiting room in the main building, I see Angel ahead of me. He must have a visitor, too. Maybe it’s that hot girlfriend of his that everyone’s always talking about.… I’ve been careful not to pressure Emily about visiting more often. It’s hard to tell from a monitored ten-minute phone conversation how she’s feeling about me. About us. We mostly talk about safe stuff and there are a lot of awkward pauses. If I could see her face-to-face more often, I might beable to read her better. I know she’s stretched to the max—single-parenting, teaching, taking care of the house, going to therapy. But three visits in over a year? Some of the women who come here visit their men twice a week. Should I be reading the tea leaves?

When Mom came to see me last Sunday, the visiting room was humming, but tonight there’s only five of us lining up at the entrance, waiting to be let in: that Sikh dude, Angel, Praise, that skinny mixed-race kid who looks like he belongs in juvie jail, and me. The Sikh’s wearing his turban; I heard he sued the state and won the right to wear it based on religious grounds. Looks like he’s got a shiner, probably courtesy of one of the “patriotic” idiots around here who think he deserves a beatdown because they mistake him for a Muslim. This kid in front of me is fidgety, nerdy-looking, braces. Reminds me of that character Urkel on whatever that show was. He’s going to be low-hanging fruit for one of the con men around here who’ll become his buddy so he can shake him down for whatever he’s looking for. How the fuck old is he, anyway? He looks about fourteen or fifteen, but he’s got to be at least eighteen if he’s here.

“Hey, Praise,” Angel says. “How’s your pops doing? I ain’t seen him around lately.” Praise’s real first name is Cornell. He’s on the janitorial crew and his nickname’s short for “Praise Jesus!” which he’ll shout in the middle of mopping the corridor or cleaning the shower room. Doesn’t hurt anyone, but that booming voice can make you jump if you’re not expecting it.

“Ornery as ever,” he says. “Wheels himself to the library every day, checks out a bunch of books, reads half the night, wheels himself over to the med line in the morning, and goes back to the library. That’s about it.”

“You talking about Lester Wiggins?” I ask him. “Lester’s your father? I met him a while back.” He gives me the once-over before he nods. Wow, father and son doing time in the same prison. Must be weird for both of them.

I shuffle my feet a little, wondering what the holdup is. If our visitors have already checked in, why are we just standing here? I look out at theempty sally port, then back at the guys I’m playing hurry-up-and-wait with. That’s when I notice that Juvie’s got a long scabby cut on the inside of his left arm. It looks infected. Forget prison; if that cut is self-inflicted, he probably needs to be in an adolescent psych unit someplace. I know I shouldn’t say anything, but my parenting instinct kicks in. “How did that happen?” I ask him.

He swivels around with that deer-in-the-headlights look and sees that I’m staring at his cut. He looks away and says nothing.

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