The letters give her pause. They’re not from her father, and she’s only read the first one. For the hundredth time, she debates throwing them into the trash, but even now, she can’t bring herself to do it. She stuffs them into the bag with the cards and the notebook. She’s already given her cell phone to Ella, the third one she’s owned since she’s been here. Ella will resell it, probably for three times what it retails for on the outside. And she’ll have no shortage of potential buyers.
Everything else, Geo will leave with Cat. This includes her TV, books, cosmetics, and two blankets she’ll no longer be needing. There’s still no word on whether her friend’s application for compassionate parole has been approved, which is frustrating and makes Geo think she’ll have to try to attack it a different way once she’s on the outside.
She was only five when her mother died of cancer, and there was nothing she could do for her then. Not this time. Not again.
“Thought once the bell sounded, you’d Speedy Gonzales right outta here,” a dry voice says, and she turns.
It’s Cat, smiling at her from the doorway. Geo frowns, even though the other woman looks a lot better today. The color has returned to her face and her eyes are brighter, though it’s clear from the way she’s leaning against the door frame that the older woman is exhausted.
“What are you still doing here?” Geo asks, cross. “You’re supposed to be at your appointment.”
“You think you were gonna leave without saying good-bye?”
“We said our good-byes last night. Cat, these appointments are important.”
“So maybe I want to say good-bye again.” Cat moves past Geo and sits down on the bed. She pats the spot beside her. “It’s just a follow-up. It can wait till tomorrow.”
Geo stifles a sigh and takes a seat on the mattress beside her friend. Cat takes her hand, squeezing her palm.
“In case my parole doesn’t go through, I want to make sure you know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me,” Cat says.
“Your parole will go through.” Geo knows where this conversation is going, and she doesn’t want to have it. She’s not ready. She will never be ready.
Cat sighs. She technically has three years left to go on her sentence, and Geo understands that optimism can be a dangerous thing in here. Optimism can make the minutes feel like days, and three years feel like thirty. But her friend is getting out, come hell or high water. Cat Bonaducci will not die in this shithole, if it’s the last thing Geo does.
“You need to stay positive—” she says, but Cat cuts her off.
“Shush. Don’t interrupt an old woman when she’s speaking. That’s rude.”
Geo can’t help but laugh. “Okay. Continue.”
“I’ve been in here a long time. Nine years. The first four were shitty. There were days when I didn’t know how I was going to get through it. And then you came along.” Cat’s eyes grow moist. “And it got better. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Geo bites her lip. She will not cry. She stares at a spot on the wall until she gets herself under control, and then pats Cat on the leg. “You know I feel the same way. That won’t change, no matter where you are.”
Cat reaches into her pocket. “I got a box of stuff from Lenny yesterday. He moved most of my things into storage, but he sent me a box of my old photos, figuring I’d want to see them before I…” She doesn’t finish the sentence. “Anyway, I thought you’d get a kick out of seeing this one.”
Geo looks down at the photo her friend is holding. Four by six inches, it’s a faded color photo of a young woman wearing a tight black satin corset, sheer black pantyhose, and bunny ears. Wavy auburn hair spills over small porcelain shoulders, and large brown eyes are accented with thick, precisely applied wing-tipped eyeliner. The corset has cinched her waist to nothing, and her breasts are soft and full. Around her neck is a thin leather strap, and attached to it is an open box of cigars.
“I used to be a cigar girl at the Playboy Club,” Cat says with a smile. “I was nineteen.”
“This is you?” Stunned, Geo turns over the photograph. On the back in fading blue ink, someone has scrawled Catherine “Cat” Bonaducci, Chicago, 1973. She turns it over again, admiring the image. “Holy shit, look at you.”
“Always a Cat, never a Cathy.” Her friend taps the photo. “I want you to have this. This is how I want you to remember me.”
The sudden lump in Geo’s throat is painful. There’s no denying that Cat no longer resembles the young woman in the photo, not by a long shot. Her breasts aren’t perky, her skin is loose, her lips chapped, her hair devoid of any shine. But her eyes are unchanged. Still large, still warm, a perfect shade of coffee brown. Catherine Bonaducci is still beautiful, if you take the time to look.
“Well, it isn’t how I want to remember you,” Geo says. “I didn’t know you then. But I’ll keep the photo for you. I’ll put it in my room, in a frame, and when you get out, you can have it back.”
“In case we don’t see each other—”
“Stop it.”
“—I want you know how special you are. You might never get a job working for a big company again. I know that’s hard. But you have brains, and you have money. I know you’ll figure it out.” Cat kisses her on the cheek. “I love you, Georgina. Like you’re my own blood.”
Geo is desperate to find something positive to say, something uplifting, but they know each other too well. Cat can’t tolerate bullshit, and Geo can’t dish it, anyway. Cat is sick. She’s going to die, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not in three months, but soon. The question is, will she die inside Hellwood or in some hospital, surrounded by strangers? Or will she die with Geo by her side, holding her hand?
Dying from cancer isn’t pretty. Cancer takes its time, and it kills from the inside out. If Geo had to choose, she’d rather go the way Boney did—short, fast, furious. Geo’s father kept her away from her mother in her last days, terrified that his young daughter would be haunted by the memories of her mother wasting away.
But what haunts Geo now is the memory of waking up early one morning only to be told that her mother had passed away in the night. She never got a chance to say one last good-bye, to give one last kiss while her mother’s cheeks were still warm. She’s never quite forgiven her dad for that.
There’s someone at the doorway, and both women look up. It’s Chris Bukowski. Geo’s not overly surprised to see the CO today, though he’s not technically assigned to her ward. She should have known he’d want to say good-bye and escort her out; she just hopes he doesn’t suggest a quick trip to the library first.
“Ready?” he asks.
Geo stands, taking one last look around. She won’t miss this place, with its gray walls, gray floors, and no windows. There’s literally nothing here she wants to remember, except for the small, thin woman still sitting on the bed. She helps Cat up, taking both of her friend’s hands in her own.
“I’ll see you soon, okay? Go to all of your appointments, and try to eat and drink as much as you can. Keep up your strength because there’s so much I want us to do together when you get out.”
“Georgina—”
“I’ll be waiting for you.” Embracing her friend, so tiny and frail and nothing like the picture that’s now in her duffel bag, Geo desperately wants to say I love you. But Bukowski’s watching, and the words won’t come.
She takes her bag and leaves her cell for the last time, following Bukowski down the hallway and out of the ward. On the way to processing, he’s stopped by another CO, and while the two are discussing some incident or other, she hears her name whispered softly. Ella Frank is standing just around the corner of the corridor, and she beckons Geo over.
Glancing at Bukowski, still deep in conversation with the other guard, Geo walks over. She’s surprised to see Ella, who she assumed was still being questioned in Boney’s murder.
“I wanted to say good-bye,” Ella says, slipping something into Geo’s hand. It’s a piece
of paper with an address written on it. “I made a call; he’s expecting you. Go today, okay? Before the kids get out of school.”
“I will. Thank you. For … everything.”
“Back atcha,” Ella says softly.
Geo turns to check on Bukowski, who’s finishing up his conversation. When she turns back, Ella is gone.
* * *
The exit process takes thirty minutes. Papers have to be signed, old belongings have to be found and returned, information has to be entered into the system. Bukowski hangs around, although there are surely more important things he could be doing. After all, an inmate was murdered earlier that day.
For Geo’s five years of work—most of it in the hair salon earning less than four dollars a day, minus what she spent in commissary every month for “extras”—she will pocket a grand total of $223.48. The processing clerk informs her of this amount with some relish, as if Geo should be proud, somehow.
“Is that good?” she asks.
“Most inmates leave with only the hundred you’re supposed to get on discharge day.” The clerk, a balding middle-aged man, peers at up at her from his desk through Coke-bottle glasses. “The fact that you’re getting more means you must have saved.”
Geo never saved. She never had to. Her financial planner had been instructed to transfer money from her personal account to her prison account every month, so money for extras like better shampoo and ramen noodles was never an issue. “Can I transfer the funds to another inmate?”
“Nobody’s ever asked that before.” The clerk frowns. “Do you have her DOC number?” Geo gives him Cat’s number. He taps his keyboard for a minute. “Done. You need a bus schedule?”
She shakes her head. “I have a ride.”
“You’re officially free.” The clerk pushes some paperwork toward her, along with a plastic bin containing the clothing she was wearing the day she entered Hazelwood. “Sign here and here, then you can get changed in the bathroom down the hall. Leave your scrubs in the bin. Or you can take them with you. Like a souvenir.” He laughs at his little joke, revealing uneven coffee-stained teeth.
Fuck, no.
In the bathroom, Geo peels off her prison sweats and puts on her old clothes. She’s dismayed to discover that the Dior dress she wore at Calvin’s trial is now tight on her, pulling at the hips and stomach, confirming that she’s gained weight from all the rehydrated, processed food she’s been eating for the past five years. Nevertheless, as she checks out her reflection, she has to admit that it’s nice to see herself looking like a person again, and not an inmate. The high heels feel strange on her feet. After five years in running shoes, they feel stiff and slippery. It’s weird to think that she used to wear these all the time, and actually thought they were comfortable.
She exits the bathroom to find Bukowski waiting for her. His jaw drops when he sees her. “Wow,” he says, his face flushing. “Holy shit. You look … wow.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Thank you.”
They walk down the hallway together toward double doors marked with an EXIT sign. Bukowski reaches for the buzzer on the wall, then stops and turns to her. “You got my number, right?” he says in a low voice. He glances up at the camera above her head. Normally Geo hated all the cameras in Hazelwood, but she’s grateful for them now. It means the guard won’t try to kiss her, or even touch her.
“I do.” It’s a lie. Geo doesn’t have it. Bukowski scrawled it on a napkin the other day, and she slipped it into her pocket. Far as she knew, it was still there, in the pants that were now crumpled in a plastic bin in the bathroom down the hall. “I’ll call you once I get settled.”
The doors beckon. Beyond them is her father … and her freedom.
“I’ll miss you.” Bukowski’s eyes are wet.
Open the fucking door, you asshole. She pulls her duffel bag over her shoulder. “Me, too, Chris.”
The CO hits the red button, and the double doors buzz open. Drops of rain and crisp morning air hit Geo’s face. Her father is standing beside his old Lexus, same one he had when Geo was arrested five years ago. He waves to her. She waves back, and without giving Bukowski another glance, she pulls off her high heels and runs forward to meet him in her bare feet.
“Good to see you, Dad.” Her voice breaks as Walter Shaw’s arms engulf her. They were allowed brief hugs in prison on visitor’s days, but Geo never allowed her father to visit her more than once a month. It was too hard.
“You, too, sweetheart. Let’s blow this pop stand.”
She laughs a little too hard at the silly phrase. Classic Walt. In the past she would have rolled her eyes, but not today. She climbs into the car, holding her breath for another minute as they drive past the final guard check, and then past the gate. Only when they’re on the open road does she allow herself to exhale.
“Hungry?” her father asks. “There’s a diner I passed on the way here, about thirty minutes out. You can get a burger and fries.”
Geo shakes her head. “Actually, Dad, what I really want is a green tea latte from Starbucks. And I need to stop and see someone on the way home. Any chance we can make both of those happen?”
“Sure. Who are we seeing?”
“He’s the brother of a friend from Hazelwood,” she says carefully, not wanting to lie to him, but unable to tell him the whole truth. “He’s expecting me. You don’t need to get out of the car; I’ll only be a few minutes.” She tells him the address. It’s in south Seattle.
Walt raises an eyebrow. “Georgina, you’re not involved in anything shady, are you?”
She rolls down the window a few inches. There’s nothing much to see on this particular stretch of highway except miles of road, endless gray skies, and drops of rain on the windshield. But the air smells like freedom, and she breathes it in. She thinks about the notebook in her duffel bag, the small one she carried around in her pocket whenever it wasn’t stashed away in an overhead air vent at the hair salon. It contains account numbers, logins, passwords, and the name of the financial planner Geo used to launder Ella Frank’s money while at Hazelwood. In a couple of hours, it will all be turned over to Ella’s brother, Samuel, the woman’s only surviving adult relative and the caregiver to her children. Samuel will receive the keys to the kingdom, and in return, he’s going to give her a gun. To protect herself and her father from the monster that’s still out there.
“No, Dad,” she says. “Not anymore.”
15
It looks like blood from a distance, but as they pull into the driveway, it’s clear that it’s red spray paint.
MURDERER. Written across their white double garage doors in a series of angry slashes large enough to be read from a block away. It’s out of place, the word screaming into the pleasant suburb as loudly as if someone were actually shouting it.
Walt cuts the engine. Geo stares at the garage, then chances a glance in her father’s direction. Both his large hands are still on the steering wheel, but his knuckles are pale, his jaw set in stone. Walter Shaw has lived here for over forty years. It’s the only house he’s ever owned, the mortgage paid off long before Geo went to Hazelwood. Walter Shaw is a good man, a successful doctor, and an upstanding citizen of the community. He doesn’t deserve this. Someone has desecrated his house because of her, and the guilt stabs her like a prison shank, quickly and painfully and in multiple places.
“Dad—”
“This wasn’t here when I left,” he says. He yanks the keys out of the ignition and tosses them into her lap. “Let yourself in the house. I’ll take care of this. Now, Georgina.”
She does as she’s told, bringing with her the empty Starbucks cups and her duffel bag, now containing the gun she picked up from Samuel on the way here. She plans to stick it under her pillow. Though the neighborhood is quiet—it’s midafternoon on a Monday and most people are still at work—she can’t help but feel like she’s being observed, as if the neighbors are peering out their windows to witness Walt’s infamous daughter’s not-so-t
riumphant return home.
MURDERER. It’s not the welcome home she expected, but that doesn’t mean it’s not the welcome home she deserves.
The house looks exactly the same as she remembers. It’s both comforting and surreal. Taking a moment to pause in the front entryway, she breathes in the smell that hasn’t changed since she was a little girl. Walt’s signature beef stew is simmering in the slow cooker in the kitchen. It’s not a large house, but it’s always been enough for the two of them.
The portrait of her parents on their wedding day still rests in the center of the fireplace mantel in the living room, full color, but with that seventies retro green-gold tint. Walter and Grace Gallardo Shaw were a beautiful couple. Her father, one-quarter Jamaican, looking sharp in a gray tuxedo complete with satin stripe and oversize lapels. Her mother, half Filipino, dressed in a simple lace gown with bell sleeves, her black hair swept up into a chignon. They were an elegant mixed-race couple during a time when it wasn’t as widely accepted as it is now, and Geo got the best of both of them.
Unless her dad moved it, her mother’s wedding dress should still be hanging in the upstairs closet. Geo always thought she’d wear it on her wedding day. But after she and Andrew got engaged and the wedding preparations began, the dress suddenly seemed inappropriate for what they were planning—it was too modest, too old-fashioned. The thought shames her now. Sometimes she wonders if this is why she truly ended up in prison—to save her from herself.
She looks at the rest of the pictures on the mantel, photos she hasn’t seen in five years. Grace Shaw is in most of them, but the only real memories Geo has of her mother are from when she was sick. They discovered a lump in her breast when Geo was only two, and she died a few months after Geo turned five. She picks up the photo of herself sitting on her mother’s lap on her fifth birthday, surrounded by balloons, a giant chocolate cake in the center of the table. Her mother’s head is wrapped in a colorful scarf to hide the hair loss.
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