Page 95 of The River Is Waiting

Take care, Em. Kiss Maisie for me and tell her Daddy will see her soon.

Love you two,

Corby

For some reason, writing that letter takes it out of me. I address the envelope and put the letter inside, but instead of sealing it, I decide I’ll read it over tomorrow before I put it in outgoing mail on the way to breakfast.

In the morning, the one part of my letter that makes me a little uncomfortable is when I wrote,Addicts get to be really good liars and I was no exception when I was drinking and drugging. I get it that I have to win back your trust over time.When Iwasdrinking and drugging: past tense. But I’m taking a benzo again. Should I rewrite the letter and leave that sentence out?…

Nah. It’s low-dose, I’m taking it medicinally under supervision, and I’ve got a plan to start tapering off it as my release date gets closer. That’s a whole different thing than abusing it. It’s just a crutch, that’s all. When someone breaks an ankle, no one expects them to get around without using crutches. Same difference. She might not understand the difference between how I was using it then and now—decide it’s a deal-breaker when it’s not even a problem. And anyway, if I told her I’m taking it in here, I might have to tell her why—because I was anally raped by one guard while another one watched. There’s no way in hell I’m doing that. It’s just a crutch, Emily. After they sodomized me, I was losing it. It calms my nerves and helps me get to sleep. Taking it is just temporary. I know what I’m doing.

So the letter is fine as is. I seal the envelope and, when they call us for morning chow, hand it to the desk sergeant. “Outgoing?” he asks.

“Yes.”

The following Saturday morning, Manny and I are cleaning up the cell when the squawk box clicks on. “Hey, DellaVecchia. You’ve got a visitor.”

Must be Manny’s sister. He said she was driving up from Jersey to visit him.

“Ledbetter, you there?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve got visitors, too.”

Visitors? Plural? Emily and my mother? No, it can’t be Mom. Not at ten thirty on a Saturday morning when the diner gets its biggest crowd of the week. Could be just Emily, though. Singular not plural, a slip of the tongue? Maybe my letter apologizing to her has put us back on track.

It can’t be Em and Maisie, can it? No, don’t even go there.…

Dad and his wife? Uh-uh. I don’t remember putting Natalie’s name on my visitors’ list. The first year I was here, whenever they said I had a visitor, I’d brace myself, thinking it might be my father. I’d walk over there feeling dread that I had to face him and, at the same time, relief that he’d cared enough to come. But it neverwashim, so by the third year, I hid my disappointment with a fuck-him attitude. Fake it ‘til you make it, as they say. But at this point, I really couldn’t care less whether he shows up. In fact, I hope it’snothim. Too little, too late. My complicated feelings about Dear Old Dad have gone to sleep and I’d just as soon not poke the bear.

“Who’s your company?” Manny asks me.

“I’m not sure. Maybe Melania and the Donald?” He pretends he’s gagging.

Entering the visiting room, I recognize the pair of guards up there on the platform—the same two who were on duty the day Solomon had that meltdown and they pulled him out kicking and screaming and made the rest of us leave. Goatee Guard looks like he’s put on a little weight; Butch has grown her crew cut out into a modified Afro. Per the usual protocol, we have to be seated before they let the visitors in. Goatee goes over the rules: a brief embrace and a quick kiss, no tongues; everyone’s hands upon the table where the guards can see them; no exchanges of any kind or we’ll get a ticket and our visitor will be banned from coming here.

Here come the troops, passing by the sally port window. Then the steel door grinds open and they’re in. I recognize Cornell’s wife and grandson from earlier visits. That’s got to be Manny’s sister behind them; she’s a Manny look-alike in a Hawaiian shirt, crop pants, and a thick gray braid. Watching them hug each other makes me wish I had a sister.

Hey, I was wrong; itisMom. What’s she doing here on a… Oh my God, it’s Maisie! She’s brought Maisie! As they walk toward me, hand in hand, I’m hungry to take her in. Dark eyes, dark hair; she’s got her mother’s coloring. As I watch her scan the room, taking in the noisy reunions of families, friends, and cons, I have an unwelcome flashback to that morning, me turning and looking in the back seat, seeing her strapped in safely next to Niko’s empty car seat. I refocus on who she is now, a kindergartener in a pretty plaid dress with a white collar, white anklets, and those little-girl shoes with the straps. Is she tall for her age? She looks tall. When Mom directs Maisie’s attention to me, I wave. She stares at me without waving back.

As they reach my table, I swipe the tears from my cheeks and get down on one knee, my arms outstretched. Instead of stepping forward for a hug, she hides behind her grandmother. “Easy does it,” Mom tells me. “She’s feeling a little shy. Why don’t we all sit down?” Given the choice of a chair of her own or her grandmother’s lap, she opts for Grandma Vicki.

“Well, hi, Maisie,” I say. “I haven’t seen you in a long, long time and I’m so happy you came to see me. Do you know who I am?” She shakes her head.

“Sure you do,” Mom tells her. “Who did I say we were coming to see?”

She reaches up and whispers in Mom’s ear. “That’s right. And here he is.” Maisie shakes her head and tells her grandma that her daddy doesn’t have a beard. “Not in the pictures you have of him at home, but he’s grown one since he’s been here. Right, Daddy?”

“Yes, that’s right. Do you like it, Maisie, or do you think I should shave it off?”

“Shave it off.” She says it to Mom, not me.

Manny calls to me from one table over. “Hey, Corby! Is that your kid?”

I nod. “And my mother.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Manny says. “This is my sister, Gloria.” We all say hello and Gloria tells me my daughter’s adorable and asks me how old she is. Before I can answer, Butch yells to us from the guards’ platform that we need to limit our conversations to our own visitors. Everyone nods. Okay, we get it.

---