Page 75 of The River Is Waiting

I write the agency a three-page letter, stamp it, and drop it in the slot for outgoing mail. Midmorning the following day, Manny’s at work and I’m giving the cell a cleaning. A new CO who looks like he’s about eighteen unlocks our door and comes in. “Room search,” he says.

Nothing of Manny’s is touched, but my stuff—mattress, bedsheets, pillow, books, art supplies, toiletries—is thrown in a pile in the middle of the floor. “You looking for anything in particular, Officer?” I ask.

He says he’s just following orders. Then he grabs my plastic bottle of shampoo and squeezes its contents all over my stuff. “Orders from who?” I ask. When he doesn’t answer, I tell him that’s okay—I know it was Piccardy.

“Don’t know anything about it,” he says. “Oh, yeah, and I’m supposed to say, ‘Gobble, gobble, gobble.’ Okay, you’re clear. Sorry about the mess.”

In the middle of the next night, I wake up to someone tapping myshoulder. Startled, I jump up in bed, blinded by a flashlight beam being held a few inches from my face. When the beam is turned around, it lights up the contours of Piccardy’s face. “Hey there,” he whispers. “Just thought I’d bed-check you to make sure you’re okay.” I feel his breath on my face but say nothing. Do nothing. After he leaves, I squint over at Manny’s digital clock. Two forty-seven. I’m awake for the rest of the night.

Over the next few days, I remain clenched and vigilant. Anselmo and Piccardy are both working third shift, which isn’t helping my sleep any. Someone’s slipped me a folded note through our tray trap; when I open it, it says, “You’re going to be sorry.” Each time I go to the chow hall, I hear some random gobble-gobbling. I don’t know who’s doing it and I’m not giving anyone the satisfaction of looking around to see who it is, but I’m pretty sure it’s coming from one or more of us inmates. Whoever they are, they must be doing Piccardy and Anselmo a favor to see what they get in return. Manny and I haven’t been saying much to each other, but every time someone gobble-gobbles, he looks at me. He was right about me getting pushback, but I don’t want to admit that the harassment is messing with my head.

Back on the tier, I try calling Emily, hoping to get a sympathetic ear. I’m grateful there’s no one else using the phones. Usually there’s a line at all three of them, so it’s kind of a miracle.

This call originates from a Connecticut Correctional facility. If you wish to accept a collect call from…“Corby.”

I hold my breath and wait for her to hit the “accept” number. She doesn’t. Either she’s out or she’s standing there, staring at nothing. She hasn’t accepted my calls in a couple of weeks now or visited me in almost two months. I recall that conversation we had about her work in therapy—how she was being encouraged to respect her boundaries and take care of her own needs ahead of others’. Meaningmyneeds, no doubt. But what does taking care of her own needs entail? Taking a spa day? Getting a manicure? Spending more time with her new “friend,” Mr. Wonderful? Too bad her needs don’t include driving down here to see her husband.

I hang up and dial the number of my second line of defense: Mom.

Less than a minute into our conversation, she says, “You sound upset, honey. Are you okay?” She always knows.

“Yeah, just feeling a little down.” Why bother going into it about the intimidation campaign when she can’t do anything about it except get upset?

“Well, I know something that will cheer you up. Maisie, honey, you know who’s on the phone? Your daddy! Come say hello to him.” Emily almost never asks Mom to babysit. Where did she go that she didn’t ask her mother? “Maisie?”

There’s an awkward silence, then Mom’s voice again. “Sorry, Corby. She’s very focused right now on her Play-Doh project. I showed her how to roll out snakes and—”

“That’s okay, Mom. Don’t pressure her. How’s she doing?”

“Oh, she’s fine, Corby. And smart as a whip! Knows all her colors and letters and the entire alphabet. And she’s artistic, too, just like you. Even has some of your gestures when you were her age.”

Unable to speak because of the lump in my throat, I say nothing.

“Emily says she’s going to hold her back another year before she enrolls her in kindergarten. I think she’s more than ready. By next year, she’ll probably be correcting the teacher! Of course, I don’t say anything. It’s Emily’s decision, not mine.”

“Not mine either, apparently,” I say. “But then again, why should I have input when I haven’t seen her since I got here?”

Mom tries one of her cheer-me-up comments. “Everyone thinks Maisie resembles Emily. And sure, she’s got her coloring and her dark eyes. But when I look at that daughter of yours, Corby, I can see a lot of you at this age.”

“Where did she go?”

“What?”

“Emily. Where did she go that she didn’t ask Betsy to babysit?”

“I’m not sure, honey. Maybe Christmas shopping? I don’t get to seeMaisie that much, so I wasn’t about to rock the boat by asking a lot of questions.”

“Not even about where she was going? What if something happened and you needed to get ahold of her?”

“She said she’d leave her cell phone on and I could call or text her.”

I scoff. “Like you know how to text, right?”

“Honey, I’ve been texting for quite a while now.” As in:youmay be stuck in neutral, Corby, but none of the rest of us are.

“Did she say if, wherever the hell she was going, it was with someone else?”

“No. Why?”

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