by Britt Morrow
“What?”
I’m eager to do anything. I’ll pore over any document, read any book. Any task would be welcome right now, but especially one that will feel productive. I had expected the loneliness, the boredom, and the impotence to be the most challenging aspects of imprisonment; however, the uselessness supersedes the other difficulties by far. What’s the point of being alive without purpose?
“I think it would be beneficial for you to talk to Colt.”
“He said that he didn’t know that she was being abused,” I respond leadenly.
I haven’t told George about my contentious relationship with Colt, but anyone observing us in the courtroom would surely have figured it out. His refusal to acknowledge me and his damning testimony said it all.
“Because he didn’t want to know. His perspective may very well shift if you remind him that you and Charlie are having a child together, that you worked incredibly hard to establish the beginning of a life together, and that you would never have thrown that away without good reason. A change in perspective could be all that it takes to dislodge memories that once seemed innocuous or merely odd.”
“Admitting to the abuse is akin to admitting that he failed her,” I answer. I hadn’t given much thought to it before, but as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I know that they’re true.
“So he’s going to dig in his heels and aggrieve her further? It wouldn’t hurt to remind him that the longer you’re away, the more difficult her life will be. And that Charlie will need somewhere to direct the resulting resentment.”
I’m not sure which would be a worse fate for Charlie in Colt’s mind: raising a child with the asshole who killed her father, or sending that asshole to jail and sentencing her to single motherhood and near-certain poverty.
“Just try, Levi. At this point, it can’t hurt,” George urges when I don’t respond.
“I’ll put him on the visitation list, I can’t guarantee that he’ll come.”
In fact, I’m almost positive that he won’t. If the roles were reversed, I certainly wouldn’t.
“Just do your best.”
Chapter 28
“Hey, Adams?” The guard on duty calls out. “Get up, your lawyer called. Apparently, it’s urgent.”
I awake from my afternoon nap - my daily reprieve from sit-ups, pacing, and worrying - with a start. I transition from groggy to alert nearly instantly. George isn’t one to use the word “urgent” lightly, and I immediately begin to worry that something has gone awry with the case.
“Coming!” I reply, hurriedly thrusting my hands through the hole in the cell door to allow them to be cuffed.
“Levi?” The warmth in George’s voice when he answers the phone immediately puts me at ease.
“Hey George, what’s going on?” I ask, not bothering with pleasantries.
“You’re a father!” He exclaims. “Congratulations!”
I hadn’t expected to hear those words for at least another week, maybe two. Charlie must have gone into labor early. I’ve envisioned this moment thousands, if not tens of thousands of times over the past few months: the pride, elation, and of course, the anguish over not being there to help Charlie through it. Instead, I only feel numb. If I can’t hold his wiggling body, feel his warmth, or smell the top of his downy head, do I really have anything to celebrate? If I never change a diaper, read a bedtime story, or help with a homework problem, do I even get to consider myself a father?
“Wow,” I manage. “Do you know how Charlie’s doing?”
“She and the baby are both healthy. I visited them briefly in the hospital. She was tired, but coping well.”
“Was there anyone there with her?” I hate the idea of her giving birth all alone in a sterile white room, not unlike my cell. I know how those walls can close in.
“One of her co-workers was there for the birth, and Colt has been spending a lot of time at the hospital.”
I hadn’t expected him to show up. Not for a child whose life he has repeatedly tried to destroy. Classes are over now though, so maybe he had nothing better to do. Or maybe he’s slowly coming around to the fact that Charlie and I are going to be parents together.
“Nash has your size, but he looks like Charlie,” George continues.
I can imagine him with her big blue eyes and a shock of dark hair. I wonder if she’ll bring him to the jail for visitation or if she’s decided to protect him from the knowledge that his father’s a felon. We haven’t actually discussed what will happen if the trial is unsuccessful. I know that this decision is hers alone to make, though. I gave up my right to parental input when I landed myself in prison.
“Do you think I’ll ever have a chance to be a parent to him?” The question is out before I have a chance to stifle it. It comes out a lot more vulnerable than I meant it to, and I’m not sure that I even want to know the honest answer.
“I’m going to do everything in my power to ensure that you have that opportunity. What I can tell you for sure though, is that you can still be a parental figure even if you’re not always present. Nash will have a good role model in you regardless of how and where that relationship takes place.”
“Do you have any kids, George?” Despite our growing closeness and his invaluable support and advice, not to mention dedication to my case, over the last couple of months, I know very little about his personal life.
“Two sons and a daughter. Who have all grown into remarkably well-adjusted people with whom I have great relationships despite the fact that I missed nearly all of their soccer games, school plays, and dance recitals growing up, and usually only spoke to them in the evenings to wish them goodnight - over the phone,” he tells me wistfully. “They have a great mother, and she fostered a strong understanding in them that the reason I wasn’t there was because I was providing them with the best possible life. I have confidence that Charlie will do the same.”
“Thanks for calling, George. And for checking in on Charlie.”
“It’s my pleasure, Levi. Between you and me, this is the most personally invested that I’ve ever been in a case. I went into criminal defense law for the shot at defending that one innocent person who really deserves it. I never thought that my most deserving client would turn out to be the one most honest about his guilt.”
I don’t know how to respond to this, whether it’s a compliment of sorts, or just George musing on the irony of life. I remain quiet and wait for him to continue.
“Anyway, I should get back to work,” George declares, suddenly snapping from sentimental back to his usual businesslike demeanor. “I’ll give you an update later this week on where things stand.”
“Okay. Thank you again for everything, George.”
After hanging up with George, I try calling the phone in Charlie’s trailer, but it’s disconnected. I hope it’s due to the press’ incessant calling, and not because she’s already struggling to make the payments. I know that she can’t possibly be back at Pete’s this soon after the birth, so I have no choice but to wait the two days until the next visitation date, praying that she’ll come. During our last phone conversation, she’d promised to be there, but that was before she had a child to care for.
The days drag incessantly, with each minute indistinguishable from the last: just a blur of canned meat on cheap bread, calisthenics on the cold cell floor, and constant reminders to myself not to throttle my cellmate. We barely spoke, each keeping to our own bleak routines, until the prison rumor mill picked up on the fact that my child was born, and now Burns won’t stop making stilted attempts at conversation. I want to believe that he’s just excited for me - and to finally have something to talk about - but my knowledge of his charges prevents that.
I’ve been steadfastly ignoring all of his questions and comments, but my irritation is reaching a crescendo. I’m relieved when the time finally comes for the guard to collect us for visitation. Even if Charlie isn’t able to come, it will be a relief not to be trapped in a cage with this animal, a
nd to have some time alone with my thoughts.
It turns out that I won’t have to spend yet another monotonous hour, though. Almost as soon as I’m seated, Charlie is walking in, at a much slower, more careful pace than usual. Even though she’s only days post-birth and still clearly feeling it, she’s still beautiful enough to turn the heads of everyone assembled in the visitation room.
I stand to hug her, but much less fiercely than before. Her face registers a grimace before I even touch her.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, risking the wrath of the guards to brush a dark tendril from her face.
“I’m sore. And exhausted. But there were no complications. Nash and I were both discharged without issue yesterday morning.”
“How’s Nash?”
“He’s healthy…He’s got a good set of lungs on him, he cries a lot,” she states. I know that she means it as a joke, but the levity is lacking. The circles under her eyes are so dark that they almost look like black eyes, and her pallor is worrisome.
“Have you slept at all recently?”
“Not really. I’ve been having a lot of nightmares…” she trails off abruptly, and I can tell that she immediately regrets having said that.
“Fuck, Charlie. I’m so sorry.”
There’s really nothing else I can say. And even less that I can do, which kills me. Not only is she under postpartum stress and the pressure associated with being the key witness in my trial, she’s also dealing with the trauma of watching her father die in front of her. Even if he was a monster, I can’t imagine the mental turmoil that she must be experiencing. And despite it all, she’s still trying to protect my feelings.
“It’s alright.” She waves my apology away as if it was for nothing more than a small slight. “Colt’s back from school now, which is helping. He’s making an effort to be involved with Nash.” My shock must be evident from my expression, because she continues, “Seriously. He even changed a couple of diapers. He’s waiting in the truck with Nash right now.”
The idea of my child being supervised by Colt when I haven’t even had the opportunity to lay eyes on him yet aggravates me. I recognize that it shouldn’t, though. That I’m extremely fortunate that he has stepped up enough to allow Charlie to visit me. There’s no way that she could have brought a newborn in here with all of the noises, the germs, and the lack of anywhere to breastfeed. I should be thrilled that Charlie has some support instead of being sullen and self-indulgent.
“I’m glad that he’s been helping out. Thank him for me,” I force myself to say.
She raises a skeptical eyebrow.
“Honestly,” I assert. “I’m glad to hear that you have some support. Nash is going to need a male figure in his life, and he could do worse than Colt,”
Not much worse, but at least he’s not a pedophile. At least as far as I’m aware. Or a murderer. I’m probably the last person who would be justified in questioning whether Colt is an appropriate role model for my son. Charlie’s son, really.
“I’ve been talking to him a bit. About the trial. About the weight of his testimony. I think he might come around,” she reveals.
“I don’t want you to worry about the trial; you’re doing more than enough already. The only thing you should worry about right now is taking care of yourself and Nash. Leave the trial to George and me.”
“Worrying about myself and Nash necessarily involves worrying about you. I’m worried about how I’m going to manage as a single mother!” She exclaims, her voice suddenly rising hysterically. “In the space of a few months, I’ve gone from not wanting to be a mother at all to having to take on the responsibility of parenthood all by myself.”
The distraught tone of her voice brings the guards towards us, as if they’re concerned that I may have done something to harm her. Charlie waves them away though, taking deep gulping breaths and trying to collect herself.
“You’re right, I’m sorry,” I reply contritely, reaching for her hand despite the close supervision of the guards. “I know that you can’t help but worry. I just want to make sure that you’re taking care of yourself.”
“I have a couple of weeks off from Pete’s. Paid weeks off - he’s looking out for me. That will give me a chance to catch up on some sleep and figure out a routine with Nash.”
A couple of weeks isn’t much, a lot less than the four-month norm, but I know that it’s all we can afford. I just hope it’s enough for her to start feeling better. Even more worrying than Charlie’s sallowness and the dark circles, is the wildness in her eyes. It’s a look I recognize well from my childhood with Brandi. She’d get the same frenzied look whenever her latest bender wasn’t serving its purpose of enabling her to forget her responsibilities and her life’s downward trajectory. Whenever her eyes took on that light of desperation, it was my cue to get lost before things got ugly. There’s no logic in desperation. When an animal feels trapped, whether physically or circumstantially, there’s no predicting how it will lash out.
I’m not likening Charlie to Brandi in any way; she’s a far better person, and mother too, I’m sure. But I didn’t know Brandi before her life took a turn for the hardscrabble. Maybe she wasn’t born bitter and hateful and selfish, but grew increasingly so over time. At one point, she might have been hopeful and eager to defy her meager upbringing too. Hardship transforms you, and not everyone knows how to channel it well.
I believe in Charlie’s ability to overcome, but I want to ensure that she’s set up for success. “That’s good. I really hope you can take some time for yourself, time to just relax.”
She shakes her head at me bemusedly, and I can tell what she’s thinking. She has a newborn at home, a fiancé in prison, and a head full of trauma - she’ll probably never relax again. I want to tell her about Brandi, warn her about desperation and hopelessness, and the rashness they breed, but the guards are already telling us to wrap up. I have to settle for a final hug: as tight as I think that I can safely make it without hurting her. As she walks away, I try not to panic over all of the things that have been left unsaid between us.
Chapter 29
I had expected Nash’s birth to make things easier. That it would remind me of all of the beauty and hopefulness worth fighting for outside of these walls. Instead, it’s made my imprisonment infinitely more difficult. Before, I never felt like I was missing that much on the outside: struggling to grasp the latest statistics concept, pushing myself to the point of exhaustion and still not performing as well as I’d like at football practice, trying to find the time for more shifts hauling groceries for housewives desperate for someone to talk to. Aside from spending time with Charlie, there wasn’t much in my former life worth missing. My freedom never felt very freeing.
Now though, every minute in here is another minute missed with my family. Nash could be learning to make eye contact or smiling right now. I could be missing a tender moment where Charlie is watching him with that small, private smile of hers that I adore. Meanwhile, I have nothing to watch except the guards coming and going, and the occasional inmate altercation.
This week has been especially difficult, given that I haven’t been able to reach Charlie. She’s taking time off from Pete’s and the trailer phone is still disconnected - something I forgot to ask her about during our last visit. George has been uncharacteristically silent over the last few days too. I’m assuming that it’s due to his renewed efforts in preparing for trial, but a quick call would be nice.
I have letters from Jeremiah and Gabrielle that I could respond to, but I’ve decided to remain incommunicado as far as they’re concerned. Their family has already done so much for me, more than I can ever hope to repay. The best thing that I can do for them now is to allow myself to slowly fade out of their lives so that they no longer feel obligated to try to help. I’ll be relegated to an odd anecdote to be recited during family gatherings, and nothing more: remember Jeremiah’s roommate who went to prison for murder?
I have other letters that I could respon
d to - my “fanmail” as the guards refer to it. But the only thing more depressing than my life in prison is realizing how many people have equally depressing lives outside of it. At least, I have to assume that they do. The letters don’t talk about much other than their “quivering womanhood” and “fiery desire,” phrases they probably stole straight from their latest grammatically questionable romance novel. I can’t imagine how unfulfilling their lives, and abusive their significant others, must be for an inmate to seem appealing, though.
While I don’t respond to any fan letters, I do read them, grateful for something other than sit-ups and counting the hours until visitation to keep me occupied. I’m hoping that Charlie can make it to visitation this week. I’m eager as always to see her, and I want to make up for the uncomfortable ending of the previous visitation. I don’t want her to think that I’m being critical of how she’s handling everything; if anything, I’m in awe.
Given my inability to contact Charlie and her lack of reliable childcare, I’m not sure whether she’ll even be attending visitation. But when the time finally comes, I follow the stream of inmates to the visitation room, feeling hopeful. I watch the parade of visitors: hard, sinewy women with unidentifiable tattoos and a hair color that doesn’t match their dark roots; soft, pale women with fearful eyes and dirty children in tow; and the occasional man with little hair and even fewer teeth.
It’s the children who draw my attention. Not their screaming or youthful antics, but the lack thereof. They’re not well-behaved, necessarily; I think that their silence can be attributed more to fear than anything. There are three kids today, between the ages of five to eight probably, although it’s hard to tell. A diet consisting primarily of Little Debbie and Chef Boyardee tends to leave the children around here smaller than their well-nourished peers whose fathers aren’t criminals. They’re also more nervous, with large darting eyes and fidgety limbs. I wonder if this is only because they’re in a jail, or if they take their uneasiness with them into the outside world: a response to a life of volatility and uncertainty. Will Nash look at me with those same distrustful eyes?
