by Britt Morrow
It appears as though the line of arriving visitors has stopped, and my spirits immediately plunge at the prospect of not being able to communicate with Charlie for another two weeks. But a final straggler eventually trails into the room, no doubt here to see me.
It’s not Charlie who strides in, with the long, toned legs that I spend more time dreaming about than I’d care to admit, but Colt. I’ve never seen a more sorry looking individual: shoulders hunched, face puffy, and eyes so red-rimmed that I can see the redness despite the ball cap that he has pulled low to shield his face. I wonder how much he had to drink last night and what Charlie had to do to finally convince him to show up here.
He scans the room longer than necessary, seemingly unseeing, before spying me in the corner and traipsing over. He plunks himself down on the metal seat across from me without making eye contact.
“Hi, Colt.”
“Levi,” he nods his head in acknowledgment, but doesn’t raise his eyes from the spot on the table that they’re fixed on.
“Are you here about the trial?” I finally ask when he doesn’t make any effort to explain his presence.
He takes a deep, shuddering breath. I knew it would be difficult, if not impossible, for Colt to admit that he’d made a mistake in denying Earl’s abusiveness. I didn’t think it would be this emotional for him, though. He looks like he’s on the verge of tears.
“I’m here about Charlie,” he finally explains.
“What about Charlie?”
“She’s gone, Levi.”
“What do you mean? What kind of gone?”
“The kind of gone that ain’t ever coming back.”
His words aren’t registering for me. “She left Nash?”
“She left all of us.”
“How?” I immediately regret the question as it leaves my lips. I don’t want to know. But I also need to in order to process what’s happening.
“Slit her wrists. I found the kid sitting in her blood.” Despite his miserable appearance, his voice is emotionless. Like he’s a news anchor reading from a teleprompter. Even our incredibly salacious local news station wouldn’t broadcast something that horrible, though. The (fake) pearl-clutchers would have conniptions. If for no other reason than to have something to complain about. The fact that I’m ruminating about chain-smoking grandmas in faux pearls tells me that I’m not processing this news any better than he is.
“Oh.” That’s all I can manage. That kind of gone. I thought he meant the kind of gone that involved a new name and a city that she could get lost in.
“When?”
“Two nights ago.”
“Did she leave a note?”
He withdraws a creased piece of paper from the front pocket of his hoodie. “It was addressed to you. I didn’t read it. They made me take it out of the envelope so they could check it out before I came in here.” He finally raises his eyes to meet mine, looking at me expectantly. Despite their redness, and the fact that he smells like the Jack Daniels distillery, his eyes are remarkably clear. Tragedy has a way of cutting through, no matter how much you try to dull it.
I take the note from him, but don’t read it. I don’t know yet whether I want to share what’s written.
“Where’s Nash?” I’m impressed by my own lucidity. I guess I’m well-practiced when it comes to dealing with tragedy, though.
“I didn’t know what to do. I can’t take care of a kid,” he states instead of answering the question.
“Where is he?” I repeat, more urgently this time.
“I let the cops take him. He’s with CPS.”
“You have to get him back.” It’s not a request. Even now, I can’t bring myself to actually ask for Colt’s help.
“You got next of kin to take care of him?” He asks. It’s a rhetorical question. Colt knows as well as I do that Brandi’s out of the question and that I don’t have anyone else.
“I’ll talk to my lawyer. Just figure out where he is.”
“You know this wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t had him, right?” He whispers it, low and deadly, but his face is red from the effort of trying to restrain himself. “None of it would have happened.”
He’s right. But I can’t bring myself to say that. “He’s all we have left of her now.”
Colt exhales loudly, seemingly expelling all of his anger. “I know.” His eyes finally well up with all of the emotions that he hasn’t yet allowed himself to display. He blinks rapidly, trying to dispel them.
“I know,” he repeats. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m not capable of raising a kid.”
I don’t know which outcome would be worse: Colt or foster care. It doesn’t matter, though; it’s clear that there’s really only one option. An option that I desperately avoided as a kid. Like Colt, I’ve had my share of CPS visits, interviews launched based on black eyes and bruises that looked suspiciously like finger marks. But those marks are easy to explain away when you’re a football player. And so I did. Brandi was the devil I knew.
“When is the funeral?” I ask. Even that is a more pleasant topic than envisioning Nash’s fate. And I can’t handle any more tragedy right now. I’m verging on emotional devastation, but I can hold it together so long as I only focus on the practicalities of the situation.
“She wouldn’t want one. Who would attend?”
“I’ve heard that they allow inmates to attend the funerals of their immediate family.”
“Great. So the two of us and the reporters who were following her around, then?”
I don’t have a snappy retort. I don’t have anything anymore.
The visitors aren’t able to depart until the hour-long visitation period is over. The two of us sit across from each other in silence, steadfastly avoiding the other’s gaze. Silently in competition to see who can go the longest without breaking down. Not that it matters. What’s a little humiliation when your entire world has been shattered?
When the guards finally signal the end of the hour, Colt shoots out of his seat as if electrocuted. “I guess I’ll see you in court, Levi,” he says, already making his way towards the exit.
It’s only after Colt leaves, and I’m walking back to my cell, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other so that my knees won’t buckle, that I realize that I didn’t ask him any of the important questions. Where was he? What did he say to her to prompt this? What did she say to him in the days and hours leading up? I know it’s not his fault. At least not any more than it is mine, but it would ease my conscience to know that he contributed in some way.
I want to know about the things Colt didn’t say, the pressure he didn’t relieve, the support he didn’t give, so that I don’t have to think of all the ways in which I failed her. It’s a feeble salve, but I’ll take anything I can get right now.
I never thought I’d be so grateful for the loneliness of my cell. The relative privacy allows me to curl up on the cold concrete floor and sob until I’m so destroyed that I’m not even embarrassed by how my howls are echoing through the dim hallways. The rest of the jail is uncharacteristically silent; there isn’t even any sniggering over my emotional state. Nothing is entertaining about this level of devastation.
The pain is exquisite, far beyond any physical injury that I’ve ever suffered. It is physical though: an acute rending of my chest that forces me to take quick, shallow breaths in between wails. I don’t know how long I spend in this state, too ravaged by emotion to even unfurl the letter clutched tightly in my hand but, by the time I’m composed enough to return to a seated position, my throat is raw, and my eyes are swollen to the point where I can barely see the letter in front of me.
It takes a while for me to focus enough to be able to read her writing. It’s loopy in a way that’s reminiscent of a child’s first attempt at cursive. That’s what she was after all: still a child. That realization brings with it a fresh wave of sobs, which only increase with each word.
Levi,
I know that
there’s nothing I can say that will explain my decision or make it any easier to bear. Not for someone like you, who knows how to fight and endure. I’ve never been particularly good at either, though. I’m tired, Levi, and I don’t know how to overcome the burden of my mistakes.
I hope you can eventually forgive my weakness and the fact that, despite you trying to save me, I was unable to do the same for you. It’s not for lack of loving you. I love you more than anything. That probably doesn’t mean anything anymore. But I just want you to know that, for the brief time that I knew you, you were the only thing that mattered. I can’t live with the turmoil that I’ve caused you. I hope that, eventually, you’ll come to agree with me that you’re better off being free of me.
I know that you did everything that you could to rescue me, and I’m beyond grateful that you tried, but I was always unsalvageable.
Love always,
Charlie
It explains everything and nothing. Her hopelessness and anguish, but not the supposed mistakes they stemmed from. The self-loathing, but not the reasons behind her self-perceived irredeemability. I guess it doesn’t matter, though. Even if I could pinpoint the reasoning, I can no longer refute her. That’s what she wanted: to go without resistance. That’s the one thing in all of this that I can understand: the appeal of no longer having to struggle and finally allowing yourself to succumb. There’s relief in acceptance.
“I need to talk to my lawyer.” My throat is so ravaged that it barely comes out as a whisper. The guard at the end of the hallway has to walk all the way up to my cell in order to decipher my croaking.
“Alright.”
I’m not sure if Charlie’s death has already made its way into the news, or if my devastation is so acute that he’s willing to provide me with any possible respite. Whatever the reason, the guard leads me immediately to the phone booth, without even bothering to cuff me first.
George doesn’t pick up the phone, which is a relief. I don’t have the energy to argue with him. Even at my best, I’m no match for his persuasiveness.
“George, it’s Levi,” I whisper hoarsely to his voicemail. “I’m taking the plea.”
Chapter 30
She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And the most terrible. I never would have known what ecstasy feels like without her. But now that I have to exist an entire lifetime without her, I wish that I’d never been exposed to that kind of rapture. You can’t miss something you’ve never had.
Being without her when we broke up was agonizing, but this is an entirely different level of devastation. While she was alive, I could hold out hope, no matter how distant. Knowing that that kind of beauty can be extinguished so abruptly, and that I’ll never be able to recapture anything that’s even remotely comparable, is soul-destroying. It’s the kind of beauty that isn’t meant to last. You can’t hold on to anything that exquisite for very long.
Without her, I’m utterly unmoored and directionless. I’m devoid of any purpose or existential significance. My depression is so absolute that it isn’t even painful anymore. I’m without any other emotion and, with nothing to compare it to, the melancholy is numbing. I have nothing to anticipate, nothing that brings joy, nothing even to worry about now that Charlie is gone.
“Adams!” The guard’s voice startles me from my haze of self-pity. “You need to be in the visitation room now.”
I already know that the visitor waiting for me is George. He’s been calling multiple times a day since I left him the message nearly two weeks ago, but I have no interest in speaking to him, or anyone. My indifference isn’t so complete that I can ignore the fact that he spent over an hour driving down here, though.
I haul myself to my feet with great effort. My limbs are stiff and ungainly after days spent unmoving on my cot. The guard averts his eyes, clearly embarrassed by my utter desolation. I should be self-conscious about the fact that I haven’t showered in days, that I’ve cried so much that my cheeks are encrusted with salt, and that I’m lumbering along like someone four times my age, but I can’t bring myself to care.
George doesn’t acknowledge my appearance when I finally enter the visitation room. He pulls me in for a hug - a real one, not the quick clap on the back you usually see between unrelated grown men - heedless of my greasy hair or the trail of snot that I’m no doubt leaving on his blazer. He grasps me tightly until the supervising guard clears his throat, probably more out of discomfort caused by the sight of two men hugging than out of any real desire to enforce the physical contact rules. George pulls back, but maintains a firm grip on my shoulders, giving me a searching look before finally sitting down.
“I understand that you don’t want to talk, but at least grant me the courtesy of listening.”
George pauses, so I nod in acknowledgment. I at least owe him that.
“Losing a significant other is devastating, particularly one as young and vibrant as Charlie was. She wasn’t the only thing that you have to live for, though. You have a son to think about. And, regardless of how you currently feel, you do, in fact, have a future in front of you.” He says it kindly, but unyieldingly, not giving me any room to argue. The tough-love father figure that I always dreamed of having.
“Did you ever consider taking another career path, George?” I ask in response.
“No. This is all I’ve ever wanted to do. Even at times like this, when the situation feels ominous and desperate. That’s when creativity is at its height.”
“That’s too bad,” I tell him. “You would’ve made a good football coach. You’ve really mastered the inspirational speech in times of difficulty routine.”
“Except that this isn’t a game, Levi,” he responds, probably harsher than he intended. “The rest of your life is at stake, not to mention Nash’s, and I don’t think you should just give up and take the plea.”
“Our case was tenuous with Charlie; it’s non-existent without her.”
“We can still work the Colt angle,” he argues. “A young woman brought up in a perfectly healthy family environment doesn’t suddenly commit suicide.”
“Colt thinks I killed her: encouraging her to have Nash, putting her through the stress of the trial…”
“You know you didn’t, though, right?” George interrupts. “Years of abuse often, if not always, result in profound psychological trauma. Combined with potential postpartum depression, that might have been the final straw.”
“I’m not looking for absolution. I’m ready to serve my sentence.”
“You’re going to be a martyr? Spend the next twenty-five years self-flagellating over a tragedy you had no hand in?”
I don’t know if he truly feels that way, or if he’s deliberately ignoring all of the ways in which I contributed, for the sake of convincing me to take the plea. I can’t believe that he’s obtuse enough for the former.
“You want to end your career on a high note, George. We both know this isn’t it.”
“A high note isn’t an easy win, Levi. I want to do what’s right.”
“You have,” I reply, eager to put an end to the argument; my mind was made up before it even started. “I appreciate everything that you’ve done for me.”
“So, that’s it?” He asks, slightly incredulous.
It does seem unbelievable that everything could just end so simply. All I need to do is take the deal and fade into obscurity. But he isn’t rid of me quite yet. “No, I have another favor to ask. A big one.”
“What is it?”
“Is there any way you can get Nash adopted? I don’t want him going into foster care.”
I know that George isn’t an adoption lawyer and that finding homes for orphans is entirely outside of his purview. His expression, a mixture of disapprobation and chagrin, immediately softens into the kindly smile that I’ve grown accustomed to, though.
“I’ll take care of it.”
“And telling the prosecutor that I’m taking the plea?”
“That too.”
Chapter 31
“It’s Levi.”
“I don’t know anyone else in the correctional system.”
It’s been over seventeen years since we’ve spoken, but I recognize his voice immediately.
“Shocking really considering the delinquents you used to hang out with.”
I’m not just being sarcastic. It truly is a miracle that none of them ended up in my cellblock for roughing up their wives or stealing $29.52 from the local gas station. The derision isn’t going to get me anywhere, though. I need Colt’s help. Hopefully, he’s actually willing to give it to me this time. I’m heartened by the fact that he even accepted my call; I hadn’t actually expected him to.
It took me weeks to get into contact with him. I went through agents, business managers, and then, finally, the University of Tennessee, before I managed to find a personal phone number for him. I’ve followed his career, at least as much as possible while imprisoned. Based on news articles - always at least a few weeks old in prison - and the occasional footage that I’ve managed to catch on the grainy prison televisions, he’s done pretty well for himself. The local news covered his ascent to NFL fame in surprising depth considering it only lasted a little over four years. We don’t have a lot to brag about around here, though. Plus, he has a great hometown hero rags to riches story: his father was murdered by a former teammate, and his sister committed suicide shortly thereafter.
I’ve consumed as much of the media coverage about him as I can, with the exception of the articles comparing the two of us. I always thought that I would be able to starkly contrast my life against Colt's, but I never would have thought that it would look like this. That I would be the one spending what should be my glory days in prison, while he becomes successful and wealthy.
And he is successful and wealthy. When he became a coach at the University of Tennessee, the local news station conducted an interview with him at his home. He made a point of showing off the grand entryway, with the dual curving staircases and a chandelier that probably cost more than his childhood home. I almost got in a fight with another inmate who wanted to change the channel, but apparently I’m intimidating enough that even seasoned recidivists don’t want to take their chances. So I got to watch Colt lead the interviewer down the wide hallway, adorned with expensive artwork that must have either been chosen by an interior decorator or a significant other with much better taste in art than in men, and into his wood-paneled study.
