As Waters Gone By

by Cynthia Ruchti

  Emmalyn scanned the room. Hope’s touches were visible, but so minimal it seemed obvious she saw it as a temporary home. “I need to talk to you.”

  She closed the book and scooted to a sitting position, pulled her knees close to her chest, and hugged them.

  “I need to go visit your father.” Emmalyn waited for an objection that didn’t come.

  “When?”

  “As soon as I can.”

  Hope chewed her lower lip. She nodded.

  “You’re okay with that?”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  Emmalyn watched the Hope version of Max’s eyes pool with tears that hung on the fringes of her eyelashes. “Two days. I know it seems like I’m abandoning you. Maybe I shouldn’t—”

  “You have to go. You have to.”

  “I’ll find someplace safe for you to stay for those two days. Would you feel comfortable with Bougie?”

  “Yeah. She’s ettcentric. In a good way.”

  Eccentric. “I wouldn’t take off so soon after you got here if it weren’t so important. And your dad and I need to talk about you, too.” She tickled the foot tenting the comforter. “Think I can convince him satellite learning is the best option for you right now?”

  “You’ve been researching?”

  “A little. Need to do more. But I think we can pull this off.”

  “Me, too.” The tears retreated. “What about Comfort? She can’t stay alone out here.”

  “Cora’s son Nick may be able to look in on her a couple of times a day. That would be helpful. I’ll try to bring back some Christmas lights. Make a list of anything else you need.”

  “I’m glad you’re going. It’s a start, right?”

  If Emmalyn looked as tired as Hope did, it was more than time to call it a night. “I’ll start making arrangements in the morning.”

  “I know where you can find the rules about visitation. You won’t believe how particular the prison system is.”

  Emmalyn hadn’t thought through all the details. “Thank you. You’re something else, Hope.”

  “You really have to go see him. He thinks he ruined your life. You never told him he didn’t.”

  * * *

  Emmalyn tried lying on her left side. No better. Pillow between her knees. Every cell in her body still ached.

  What’s the last thing she’d said to Max? Before the 400 years of silence. Four years, give or take. What had she said? Her anger morphed into pathetic begging. She remembered that much. He would have been in the hole, the shu, when she penned, “I don’t know what else to do but give up on you.” And the final message: “Contact me somehow if that’s not what you want. Say something!”

  Sounded like a song from her iTunes list.

  She hadn’t meant it to sound so final. Had she? Pain says bizarre things. She’d thought it would shake him. It shook her instead. And he didn’t even know.

  Emmalyn had spent too many moments since then alternately convincing herself she didn’t need him or that he didn’t need her, that their marriage had been a season—like autumn. Too short, but brilliant . . . except for the deaths.

  Then the flash of a memory of him would drag her into a small, shadowed room where hope pretended they’d have a future if they could navigate the disappointments of their past and the gravity of the present. He was paying for a crime for which he was determined culpable. Is it possible—? No. She wasn’t like that, was she? She didn’t . . . couldn’t have wanted him to pay for robbing her of their final low-percentage opportunities, their last-gasp attempts at having a child, her last hopes of becoming a mother?

  Before. That was before. Some people say faith makes you blind, or that it clouds reality. Emmalyn hadn’t really seen at all until she stopped using her eyes as her only source of vision. So much was still blurry, but clearer every day.

  He seemed content with what they’d once had. Needed nothing more. Resigned himself to seeing her as a tattoo—a reminder from another era. What would they have to say to one another when they sat in the same room?

  She’d start with, “I’m sorry for what I put us through.”

  And the second sentence? “Even if you don’t say something, I’m not giving up on us.”

  And then he’d say . . . And then she’d say . . .

  She ran her fingers through her hair. Her head throbbed with the possibilities.

  23

  Your purse stays in your car.”

  Emmalyn turned to the woman walking past where Emmalyn had parked in the visitor’s lot.

  “Oh. Right. Hard habit to break.”

  “Your first time here?”

  Emmalyn pulled her driver’s license and lip gloss from her purse then tucked it under the seat and locked the car. “That obvious?”

  “You’ll get used to things.” The woman—shorter than Emmalyn’s five foot seven by a few inches—tottered on cork platform shoes that completely fit her 80s striped leggings and silver lamé puffy coat.

  Emmalyn took a couple of quick steps to catch up to her. “I read through the unabridged dictionary of instructions, but . . . ”

  “Just watch the rest of us. That’s how I learned. My mom got reamed out by a guard for putting her feet up on a table when she visited my brother. Bunions.”

  Her brother’s name was Bunyons? Oh.

  The woman looked at Emmalyn in a way that made her squirm. “You’re not wearing an underwire, are you?”

  “Excuse me?” Emmalyn tugged her coat shut.

  “An underwire bra will get you kicked out faster than looking cross-eyed at a guard. I won’t make either of those mistakes again. Hey, I’m Regina. Reggie.”

  “Emmalyn.”

  The two neared the first set of gates. “Visiting your husband? Boyfriend?”

  “Husband.”

  “He just got here?”

  Who wouldn’t assume that? Emmalyn was a greenhorn on visitation rules. No, he’s been here more than four years. For the first year, he asked me not to come. Then we . . . left each other alone. No point starting that story. Even Emmalyn didn’t know how to justify the silence between them, from her side or his. “He’s been here a while.”

  “My brother . . . ”

  Bunyon.

  “ . . . is a lifer.”

  Emmalyn’s breath caught in her throat. Reggie had said the words so casually, as if having a brother in prison for life were no more axis-altering than missing out on the two-for-one sale on bunches of bananas. “I’m so sorry.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “You just told me he was in for life.”

  “Oh. I thought you meant you were sorry because of the news I have to give him. But how could you know that?”

  Did Emmalyn want to ask? “What news?” The first set of gates let them into a holding area. They took forms from the guards and started filling out the visitor registration paperwork.

  “Mom’s gone. He’s gonna freak. But you can’t be in prison for life and not expect your mom to die while you’re in there, you know? Bummer about the fog yesterday.”

  Who would have thought fog would cancel all prison visits? Fog! She’d driven the 320 miles through it, slept fitfully in her motel room, then wakened to an even thicker fog and the news that all visitations were canceled until the fog lifted. People could get lost in fog, breach the fence in fog, escape in fog.

  Nothing about this was easy. She’d gathered the courage to make the trip, but would have logged the miles and emotional toll for nothing if the fog hadn’t lifted by this morning, the last opportunity of the weekend. “Does that happen often, Reggie?”

  “Often enough to be irritating. Did you drive far?”

  “Far enough.”

  Emmalyn followed Reggie to an area that looked as if it had been swiped from an airport security checkpoint. The women removed their shoes, coats, and pocket contents and sent them through the tabletop scanner while they stood in line waiting to be waved through the body scanner.

  �
��You!”

  Emmalyn turned. One of the guards signaled for her to remain on the near side of the body scanner. She watched Reggie—passing inspection without a hitch—move on into the gated holding area.

  “Yes, sir? What is it?”

  “These your things?” He pointed to one of the trays.

  “It’s a note from his daughter. And a picture.”

  “Let me see.” Flat, stiff words. She hadn’t been sentenced to anything. Did the guards have to treat her like pond scum? “She’s beautiful,” he said, not like a letch would say it. More like the grandfather he probably was. A degree of warmth?

  “She is.”

  The guard held the picture to the side of Emmalyn’s head. “I see the resemblance.”

  No you don’t. And that’s part of our problem.

  Her lips stuck together. Dry air. Nerves.

  “See this?”

  Her lip gloss. He plucked it with two gloved fingers and dropped it into a wastebasket under the conveyer belt. “I’ll hold the photo and note until you come out. You can mail them to him.”

  “But I’m here. Can’t I just—?” Obviously not. She couldn’t risk angering the people with the power to send her home.

  He searched the folds of her infinity scarf. Emmalyn didn’t want to think about what kind of contraband a visitor might smuggle in an infinity scarf. They patted her down, which she expected. The body scanner beeped like every airport scanner did because of the metal plate in her ankle from thinking she could ice skate when she was sixteen. The chunky necklace and locket she wore on top of the scarf drew suspicion. Satisfied the locket was empty, they let it pass inspection, but held her gaze when insisting it had better be empty when she exited the visitation room.

  Why was it necessary to demean and intimidate visitors? She knew. Or could imagine what others might have tried to pull. Being lumped in with “others” frustrated her on two counts. She hadn’t broken any laws. But she’d pictured herself in a different class than “those kinds of people,” which Bougie would probably tell her was a violation of some ancient God-law.

  She smoothed her black Shetland sweater over her still-flat waistline. She didn’t need Bougie to tell her.

  She rejoined Reggie in the holding area.

  “What did I do?” she asked, her voice low.

  Reggie sighed. “What did they take?”

  “My lip gloss. And a picture of his daughter. A note from her, too.”

  Reggie glanced toward the steel doors leading to the visitation room—“Oh, the irony,” Hope would say—a few feet from where they stood. “You’ll get the hang of this eventually. Some guards are a little more lenient than others. Some are lenient one day and tough as overcooked liver the next.” She smiled at her own word picture. “Lip gloss. You rebel.” She smiled again. “We visitors aren’t supposed to talk to one another when we’re in there, so I’ll tell you quick. You get one kiss and hug when you greet each other and one when you say good-bye. You sure you want to worry about messing up your lipstick?”

  The room, once desert dry and hot, grew Arctic cold. “I don’t think that will be a problem for us.”

  Reggie’s eyebrows lifted, then dropped back to neutral.

  Emmalyn fought for a face-saving way to approach the moment when all the other spouses in the room would embrace.

  Reggie waved a card. “Did you get your vending machine card loaded? That’s all you two will be allowed to eat while you’re in there. I never stay long enough to miss a meal, but if this is your first visit . . . ”

  “Yes. I put thirty dollars on it.”

  “See how far that goes. Might want to load that thing a little heavier next time.”

  For vending machine food? Oh. Lunch, supper, snacks. Two days worth of that on an ordinary visitation weekend and she’d be overdosed on Cheetos and Oreos and clamoring for an all-celery diet.

  “Ready?” Reggie nodded toward an approaching guard.

  No. “I think so.”

  “Keep your hands at your sides until we’re in the room. No sudden moves. The visitation area is monitored, like you had to be told that. You’ll see the surveillance cameras everywhere. Are you staying until three, when visiting hours are over?”

  “I don’t know. We have a lot to talk about. I . . . ” The air smelled of old building, inexpressibly damp cement, and industrial cleaner. And steel. Lots of steel. The visitation room held a hundred or so institutional chairs and several dozen plastic tables. Reggie’s brother stood when Reggie neared. Emmalyn was on her own. She scanned the room for the Max she once knew, then scanned again for a version almost five years older. Reggie subtly motioned for her to sit down and wait.

  She walked past the guard desk and a library cart full of books, dog-eared decks of playing cards, Scrabble, and other board games no one bothered to tape at the corners anymore. She waited. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. Fifteen. She tried to catch Reggie’s attention and finally did. Reggie motioned, “Sit. Down.”

  So much for saving face when Max refused to kiss her. How would she save face if Max refused to show up?

  The vending machine occupied an alcove on the opposite side of the guard desk. A small microwave sat just outside the room. It looked like a bad idea made worse by the reason it had landed a job in a correctional facility rather than a motel continental breakfast room. Her stomach churned at the thought. And other thoughts.

  “Emmalyn?”

  She turned at the sound of his voice. Nobody spoke her name like he did.

  Her cheeks warmed at the tenderness in his eyes. Tenderness. Not disgust. Not resentment. Not the brokenness he talked about, however he defined it. He took a step closer, leaving only six feet between them. Now what? She stood. Took a step toward him.

  “Emmalyn,” he said again, as if testing the word on his tongue. “I can’t believe you’re here.” He gestured with his arms out, palms up, shoulders shrugged, like Hope did.

  She knew better than to think she’d find him in black and white horizontal stripes. She’d seen the other prisoners in the visitation room in drab gray shirts and darker gray pants. Gray looked surprisingly good on Max. His hair had been clipped shorter than she’d ever seen it. She resisted the urge to reach up and find out if it was soft or stubbly.

  After a moment, he lowered his arms.

  “We’re allowed a kiss,” she said. It’s true. We never really leave junior high. They danced around what should have been natural for them. “That’s what I heard.”

  He surveyed the roomful of prisoners and visitors. When he turned back, his eyes glistened.

  She took another small step forward. “People in Italy and Greece kiss to say hello.”

  “And France,” he said, stepping closer. “And the Middle East. And France.”

  “You said that already.”

  He brought his hands to her shoulders, then the sides of her face. From her viewpoint, his kiss felt like pent-up agony and bliss in the same too-brief moment. She didn’t have to ask how it felt from his vantage point. His eyes told her.

  She reached around his middle and pressed her head against his chest. The smell wasn’t the same. Whatever the prison used for laundry soap, it wasn’t the “mountain fresh” version she used at home. But the solid core of him felt bracingly familiar. More muscled. His arms around her chased away every chill she’d ever known.

  “That’s enough.” The guard pronounced his verdict, but turned on his heel as if acknowledging they’d need the four extra seconds it would take for him to return to his station.

  Max extended his hand toward the chair where he’d found her. He pulled one opposite so they sat knee-to-knee, but not touching. A good foot between them. No more touching. He seemed to study her face.

  Her hand reached to her cheekbones. “It’s amazing how much five years can age a person.” She tried to laugh it off, but the chuckle aborted itself.

  “That’s not what I was thinking.” He bent forward and rested his forearms on his thigh
s. “I like your hair, by the way.” He didn’t look up. “We have so much to talk about.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Where do we start?”

  Emmalyn pinched back tears. “Hope?”

  He lifted his head without sitting up. “How is she?”

  “I wasn’t talking about your daughter.”

  24

  You have a scar. On your chin.”

  Max rubbed the spot with his knuckle. “Would you believe a football injury?”

  “No.” A scar he hadn’t had before. Her imagination threatened to bolt.

  The noise level in the stark, acoustically disadvantaged room made thought a challenge, much less conversation. They leaned toward each other to hear, but that heightened the discomfort of some topics.

  “How did it happen?” She nodded toward his scar. “Is that what landed you in the shu?”

  He stared at the floor again. “Some stories are going to take a while for me to be able to tell. It’s pointless to say it wasn’t my fault. I mean, it wasn’t. But it’s pointless to say it.”

  “Pointless. Fault is less important than where do we go from here.”

  He leaned back then. “It’s a good principle to live by.”

  “Life-changing,” she said.

  “It makes no difference at all right now, but I had no intention of ramming the building that night, Em.”

  “I know. That’s what you said.”

  He looked just to the right of her left shoulder. “It must have seemed that way. Are you going to ask me what I did intend to do?”

  “Would it fix anything?”

  He played thumb war with his own thumbs. “Probably not.”

  “Do you need to say it?”

  “Probably.”

  She pawed through a dozen responses, discarding eleven of them. “It’s safe with me, Max. You’re safe with me.”

  He angled his head and looked at her. “You’ve changed.”

  “You have too.”

  “I was afraid I’d ruined your life.”

  “You didn’t.” I told him, Hope. Pray he believes it.

  His face brightened by two degrees, like the television ads show the effects of tooth whitening products. “We should be worrying about the stability of our 401ks right now. Not this.” He indicated their current surroundings. A humorless room with couples and families trying to maintain a fragile peace between them despite the painfully awkward structure, and the rules designed to keep them apart.