Page 97 of The River Is Waiting

“No, silly. That’s mygramma’sname.”

“Your grandma? I thought your grandma’s name was Vicki.”

She widens her eyes and slaps her forehead. “Myothergramma, dumbhead!”

“What? Your other grandma’s name is Dumbhead?”

Mom reminds us both that it’s not nice to call someone that.

When Officer Goatee gives visitors the five-minute warning, Mom tells Maisie she’d better put the books and the bunny back where she got them. She tells her no, she can’t keep the bunny because other children will want to play with it, too.

As we watch her walk across the room, my protective-parent instinctkicks in again. Mom says she thinks Maisie and I made some good headway today. “They used to love it when I read to them and got silly,” I tell her. “Came back like riding a bike.”

“But please don’t say things like that about Betsy. That’s not going to help.”

“Point taken,” I tell her.

Mom says it broke her heart when Maisie told me she’s going to that princess party. “It already happened and Maisie was the only girl in her class who wasn’t invited. Apparently, when she asked that girl Michaela why, she told her it was because she’s ‘a weirdo.’ Emily said poor Maisie was devastated.”

Hearing this breaks my heart, too, but once I’m out of here… And here she comes, back to the table. For whatever reason she’s an outcast at school, we’re going to help her fix that.

“Visits are now over, people!” Officer Stickley announces. Most of the others in the room stand and embrace.

Mom and I share a quick hug and I get a peck on the cheek. “Not too much longer before I’m out of here,” I tell her. She puts her hands together as if in prayer. Turning to Maisie, Mom asks her whether she’d like to give me a hug or a kiss goodbye. Maisie shakes her head. “Okay then, see you soon,” I tell her.

I watch them walk with the other visitors to the steel door and wait for it to open. Mom and Manny’s sister are saying something to each other. As they stand there, Maisie suddenly pivots, looks back at me, and gives me a timid wave. I wave back. For the time being, this little exchange is all I need. The door begins its noisy opening, the visitors walk through, the door reverses direction, and they’re gone.

Dismissed from the visiting room, we line up to be strip-searched. Thinking about what Anselmo and Piccardy had planned when I was led into that storage room for a strip search, I break out in a sweat. Begin to shake. I’m desperate to hold on to my daughter’s visit—the sound of her giggling, her braids, the joy of that surprise wave—but it’s being snatchedaway from me as the ugliness comes back. I smell the onions, feel the surprise pain of it, the humiliation. When I’m next in line to be searched, I walk toward the CO. A few minutes later, I’m outside, walking back to B with Manny. I can’t recall bending and coughing just now, any of that. When I began flashing back, I must have checked out until it was over.

I started weaning myself off the Klonopin two weeks ago and quit it altogether the day before yesterday. That’s it, I told myself. No more. But I’m feeling so rattled by that strip search that, after chow, I get the okay from the CO at the control desk, head over to the medical unit, and get in line. I’ll just take it this one last time so that, after that flashback I had, I can calm my nerves and get some sleep tonight. Then that will be it.

Dear Emily,

I’m writing to thank you for giving the okay to let Maisie visit me with my mom. For the past almost-three years, I’ve appreciated the pictures and updates you’ve sent me, but seeing her in person was magical. Sometimes when I think about that hour she and I had together last Saturday, I almost wonder if it really happened. I love her so much, Em.

Maisie’s visit has gotten me thinking about our future—yours and mine—and the difference between the fantasy of what I’ve imagined happening and the reality of our situation. My gut tells me you’re leaning toward going forward with the divorce. It kills me to write this, please know that, but I think I can admit to myself now that, other than legally, our marriage ended a while ago. That day on the phone when I was pushing for a reconciliation, you said that whatever was going to happen, you wanted me to still be in Maisie’s life. I’ve done a lot of thinking about that and, especially since her visit, I realize that’s the most important thing. And you’re right that my reentry into her life should be gradual until she feels comfortable with me and you’re comfortable that my recovery is rock-solid.

There’s a skinny little window at the back of my cell that looks out onto the visitors’ parking lot. In the time I’ve been here, I’ve sometimes witnessed through this window the reunions between some guy who’s just been released and the families and friends who meet him and drive him away. For the past almost-three years, I’ve imagined the day when I walk out of here and now it’s close to happening. My mom is going to pick me up and if it’s okay with you, before we go back to her place, I’d love to see you and Maisie, either at the house or someplace where we can go for lunch or whatever. I hope that’s not too much to ask and, if it is, I’ll understand. You can let my mother know if it’s okay with you. Thanks for considering it. Love you, Corby

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

January and February 2020

Days 914–17 of 920

It’s Friday, January thirty-first, four days until my release. To make sure everything goes smoothly, I’m spending most of the day with a new CO, Officer Whiteley, who looks like she’s just out of middle school, never mind the police academy. She’s assigned to escort me to the offices where various personnel will help me do everything I need to do and sign everything I need to sign to ensure smooth sailing when I’m processed out of here on Tuesday.

Our first stop is the Inmate Trust Fund office. My account was frozen a week ago and I’m told I have eighty-seven dollars and forty-two cents left on the books. From that, fifty bucks will be subtracted and handed to me in cash as “gate money” just before I leave. The remaining thirty-eight dollars and change will be issued in a check forwarded to me at my mom’s address.

Next, I have my picture taken for the ID card I’ll exchange for my prison ID. This new identification will substitute for the driver’s license I surrendered when I was indicted three years ago. I’ve been warned by my case manager that getting my license reinstated won’t be easy, given the nature of my conviction. The DMV fees will be steep and I’ll probably have a better shot at it if I hire a lawyer. I make a mental note to call Rachel Dixon’s office later, but there’s a part of me that dreads the thought of getting behind the wheel of a car again.

On our way to the property office, I ask CO Whiteley what drew her to this kind of work. “My last job was checking members in at a fitness center and saying ‘Have a good workout!’ a hundred times a shift. Plus, it’s kind of in the family. My dad’s a state cop and one of my brothers is a CO.”

“Which prison is your brother at?”

That’s when her training kicks in, I guess. Her face turns expressionless and she says, “Never mind. No more questions.”

At the property window, I refuse the personal effects I came in here with. The last thing I want to be reminded of is the courtroom clothes I was wearing the day I was processed in here. “Donate them or throw them out,” I tell the property manager. And so he issues me a thermal undershirt, a pair of khakis with an elastic waistband, and a hooded sweatshirt. “I ain’t got any winter jackets at the moment. You can’t walk out of here with the winter coat they issued you because it’s state property. They’ll make you surrender it before you leave. When you leaving?” This coming Tuesday, I tell him. “Supposed to snow,” he says. “You need socks or skivvies? They’ll let you leave here with those.” I tell him I just got laundry back so I’m good. Last time I talked to my mother, I asked her to buy me some underwear and socks so I could throw out the used shit they issue us here. “Any excuse to go to TJ Maxx,” she said.

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