by Ashley Smith
“But see,” I said, turning from the stove now to look at Brian, “I had to face that whole way of thinking. I had to face it and admit that certain things happened to me because I chose to do those drugs —and because I didn’t choose to turn to God and say, ‘Help. What do I do now?’ ”
“We’re almost ready,” I told Brian. He was still in the kitchen, not really looking at my pictures anymore. He was just watching me cook. Just listening. Not saying a word.
I had several pancakes done now—they were sitting on a plate next to the stove—and I was scrambling up some eggs in a skillet. “Just another minute or two,” I told him.
I got a couple of my glass plates down from the cabinet and put some pancakes on one for him. Then I stirred the eggs a few more times and picked up the pan with the pot holder so I could scoop some eggs onto his plate.
“Here’s yours,” I said, handing him the plate. “Go sit down at the table, and I’ll get the rest of the stuff. Oh, wait! Here’s a napkin.” I grabbed a couple of paper towels off the roll and handed them to him.
He took his plate into the dining room. My table and chairs were on the other side of the fridge, so I couldn’t see him anymore. But I could hear him set his plate down on the glass tabletop.
Next I made a plate for myself and went and set that out on the table. Brian was sitting on the side nearest that big mattress and box springs. He hadn’t started yet—I hadn’t given him any silverware.
“Sorry. I’m almost ready. I’m bringing your silverware.” I went back to the kitchen, took down a couple of glasses, and got a bottle of Minute Maid fruit punch out of the fridge. I poured the drinks—I gave him the Disney World glass—and took those out. Then I went and grabbed the syrup and the butter dish out of the fridge and some silverware out of the drawer.
“Wow,” he said, as I set the things down carefully on the glass table. “Real butter? Pancakes?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Hope you enjoy it.” Real butter? He’s impressed by this stuff? Dude, this is real life. People eat butter. People eat pancakes. He just isn’t doing that well right now, is he?
Finally, I sat down to eat with him. I grabbed one of the paper towels and put it in my lap. Then I just closed my eyes for a second. Thank you, God, for this food. And thank you for bringing me this far.
I waited on Brian to fix his pancakes with butter and syrup, and then I fixed mine—I used lots of both. It was Saturday morning. This was what I used to do every Saturday morning. Every Saturday in another life. Now Mack was gone and Aunt Kim was fixing Paige’s breakfast. And I was sitting here over pancakes with Brian Nichols.
“How is it?” I asked him after he’d taken a few bites.
“It’s great, really great,” he said, sipping his juice.
I cut into my stack of pancakes and took my first bite. I thought, “Honestly, Ashley, these are the best pancakes you’ve ever made in your life right here.” I didn’t know. Just something about them. They were incredible.
Then Brian looked up and said, “You know, Ashley, I wish I would’ve met you at a different time and under different circumstances. We could’ve been friends.”
I smiled a little. I didn’t really know what to say —or what to feel. I knew after hearing those words that he would let me leave. I was also thinking about his child, and how he was going to prison now and wouldn’t get to raise him. I felt bad for Brian. But then I remembered the agent and his family, and the other families, and what they would have to go through—what they were already going through. And I started to feel tired, so tired and sick over that.
We ate for a few minutes in silence, and as our forks clinked against the glass plates, I glanced over at Brian, trying to read his face. He seemed, I don’t know, kind of content. Relaxed, maybe. He was eating some real food after all that time in jail, and I knew what that food in there was like. But he still looked melancholy, basically the way he had looked all night. I hoped he was thinking about everything I had told him and what he needed to do now. I knew I didn’t have much time left to get through to him. I was leaving soon, and I really didn’t want to leave him here by himself. I wanted him to turn himself in while he could still see that it was the right thing to do.
“You know,” I said now. “Just think about how far you’ve traveled these last I-don’t-know-how-many hours. You made it out of the courthouse. You made it all the way to Duluth. You made it to this apartment. And now you’re sitting here eating breakfast. Can you believe the miracle of that?” I just wanted to keep going back to the miracle thing to remind him he had a reason for being here.
He kept eating, working on his pancakes and eggs. Then he said, “Well, God probably led me right to you. I’m lost right now, and maybe God led me to you to tell me about the families—just, you know, to let me know how they felt. Because you’ve gone through it yourself.”
He wasn’t looking at me. He just kept turning his food over with his fork. I felt blown away by what he had just said. He was getting it, totally getting it. God, he’s got to come with me now. He can’t stay here.
“Dude, why don’t you just go turn yourself in now?” I said. “I’ll drive you up there. We can just go up there and do it. Let me take you. Don’t wait a few more days. I mean, you need to do it now, or something really bad might happen. More people could get hurt. You could get hurt. Come on, let me take you.”
I cut into my pancakes with my fork and watched him.
“I just need a few more days,” he said, still looking at his plate. “I just want to stay here a few more days and relax and eat some real food.” He’s really not budging on this. Not budging at all.
“But, I mean, you just said you’re here in this apartment for a reason,” I told him. “You got out of that courthouse with police everywhere. Don’t you think you’re supposed to be sitting in front of me listening to me tell you what you need to do right now?” I just wanted him to see it so badly. I can’t make him, God. I can’t make him listen to me.
I stopped for a minute and took a few bites of my pancakes, trying to enjoy them.
“You know,” I said, “Your miracle could be that you go on and pay for this. That you turn yourself in right now and go to prison and share the Word of God with all the other people in there. Maybe that’s your purpose right there. Maybe that’s what God wants you to do, and he brought you here to my apartment so you could know that. I mean, listen—we could go right now.”
He didn’t say a word. I could see he just wasn’t moving on this at all. God, I’m trying here, but I don’t know what else to say. I’ve said everything I know. It’s his choice, and I can’t do any more. You’ve just gotta help him make the right decision.
I looked over at Brian’s plate now. He’d cleaned it up pretty good. I couldn’t eat much more, either. “Okay,” I said, taking one more big bite of eggs and sliding off the tall chair. “All done?”
“Yeah,” he said, getting up. “It was real good. I’ll wash these.”
“No, man,” I told him. “I’ve got ’em. Don’t worry about it. You’re fine.”
24 staying calm
I took the plates and put them in the sink, and Brian followed with the syrup and butter and set those on the counter. Then he went and got his glass and brought it over to the bar. He was looking at those pictures again, leaning over the tools. Maybe he just wants some normalcy in his life right now. Breakfast. Washing dishes. Looking at family pictures. My heart went out to him.
I could see he was looking at this one picture of my whole family at my cousin Sarah’s wedding. It was in a wooden frame that read “The Gang.” “Okay,” I said, leaving the plates. “Let me show you who those people are.”
I went around the bar, picked up the picture, and stood next to him with it. “This is my cousin Israel, and he’s a great discus thrower. And this is my cousin Steven, and he goes to East Carolina University, which is in Greenville, North Carolina, and he plays college football there.”
“Oh,” Bria
n said, setting his glass on the bar. “Really?” Good. A point of connection for him. Maybe that helped.
“And then, here’s my cousin Sarah’s new husband, Jordan. He plays baseball for Georgia Tech, and we’re really hoping he’ll go pro. And these are the aunt and uncle that Paige stays with—my Uncle Steve’s a doctor, a radiologist, which is why I wanted to go into some type of medicine. And then my brother and my sister again.” I just kept on, naming everybody.
I turned back to the bar. “There’s my oldest cousin Rebekah holding Paige,” I said, pointing to another frame. “And you’ve already seen the one of Mack and Paige. So, yeah. That’s my family right there. Look at those all you want.”
I left Brian at the bar and went back around to the sink to start washing dishes. I turned the water on hot and let it run. I got the pans off the stove and then the mixing bowls off the counter. By now it was after eight o’clock. Not too much longer. Just an hour or so. I was glad I had something I could be doing. Something where I could be standing up and moving around. I was about to get this kitchen really clean—that’s how I liked it anyway. I usually never left a dirty dish in the sink.
As I was working, Brian turned around and went back to the hallway. I saw him go into the bathroom. I still had the water running, but right away I started hearing something strange. Some clattering on the counter. Then a loud clicking noise. I turned the water down a little and listened.
“Click. Click. Click. Click.” The guns. Whoa! What’s he doing? I could feel my whole body just tense up immediately. Is he coming in here to kill me? Is he about to kill himself? I stood there frozen: Prepared to see him standing in the doorway pointing a gun. Prepared for the shot. I could hear it in my mind. Just hear the gun going off. Like when he first came in. Like when I was walking to the bathroom. At the beginning. Please, just let him be taking the bullets out.
I looked over at the two windows and the door to the porch in the living room. All the blinds were still closed, but I could tell it was really getting light out now. God, just help me hold on here. I’m so close. I’ve made it this far. Keep him together for me, God. He’s got to let me leave.
A minute later I saw Brian walk across the hall to my bedroom carrying something. I turned off the water and heard something drop to the flooor, some fumbling around. Then he walked out. There he is. But his hands were empty. He walked across the room to the TV and turned it on. Then he went back to his spot on the couch and sat down.
“You’re gonna be on the news,” he said now. I could hear his name on the TV. “Brian Nichols.” And all of the same stuff we’d listened to a few hours ago. It was all still playing there on the news.
“What?” I asked him. “On the news?” I didn’t get it.
“When I turn myself in and you’re out here and I’m in there, you’ll be on the news,” he said. “And they’re gonna want to know everything. So, what will you say to them?”
I was so relieved that he was still talking about turning himself in, I couldn’t think for a second. “Well,” I said, standing at the sink. “When they want to know, I’ll tell them what happened. I’ll tell them about the person I saw.”
He nodded slowly, looking at me for a second and then turning back to the TV. What does he think I would say?
“Look, dude, you came into my house and scared the everliving crap out of me, but as far as harm me, you didn’t harm me.” I was thinking about how he hadn’t taped up my mouth. How he hadn’t raised a hand to me. How he had asked me if that extension cord was too tight. How he had respected me and put that towel over my head.
“I mean, I’m not going to be somebody on TV saying you hit me over the head and did all this stuff to me,” I told him. “I’m not gonna, you know, lie and say you did things that you didn’t do. Okay?”
I was trying to reassure him —I didn’t know what he had been doing in there with those guns. Plus, I wanted him to know that when he did the right thing and turned himself in, I wasn’t going to just turn around and make him out to be something he wasn’t. I’d already learned all about lying. I’d lied to my family too many times to count. Mainly about drugs. “No, I’m not doing those now.” And about people I dated who I knew were losers and druggies. “No, he doesn’t do that.”
In recovery I wrote everybody letters apologizing for all the lies. For lying and a whole lot more. I’d learned that when you start believing your own lies, you’re in deep trouble. And that’s where I was when I went into recovery. Every time I tried to make something out to be different than it was, it never came out right. So I was through with that now. I didn’t want to be that person anymore. And I hoped Brian could see that.
“What time do you need to leave?” he asked. Thank you, God.
“Well,” I said, “I have to be there at ten, so I probably need to leave around 9:15 or 9:30.” At this point, it was somewhere around 8:30.
“Okay,” he said. “So you don’t mind if I just stay here a few days and chill out?” He’s asking me again? He just keeps asking me permission for stuff.
“No, that’s fine. You can do that.”
“You’re sure you don’t mind?”
“I don’t mind. Sure, go ahead.” Look, if you let me leave here at 9:30, I’m not coming back here to live with you for another three days.
“Will you come and visit me in jail after I turn myself in?” he asked now. Wow. He must really think he’s found a friend in me if he’s asking that. At least he was still talking like he was going to do the right thing.
“Yes,” I said. “Yeah, I’ll come and visit you.” I wasn’t sure at that moment if I would do it or not, but I didn’t want to discourage him in any way from what he needed to do.
Then I asked him, “Are you sure you don’t want to just come with me when I leave, and I’ll take you to the courthouse? I could drive you up there now and you could do it.” Might as well try. Might as well give him every opportunity.
“No,” he said, looking at the TV. “I’ll come with you in a few days.”
I thought: “He’s not going to budge on delaying this thing. And he knows I’m not going to budge on what I think he should do. Maybe he just knows that when I leave I’m making that 911 call, and that’s his way of turning himself in. I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“Can I wash my clothes now?” he asked.
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “But you need to fix that washing machine.”
Brian got up and went back into my bedroom. I listened. The guns? But in a second he came back in the living room carrying his dirty clothes.
“The machine’s in there,” I said. I was standing next to the bar and the tools, and I pointed toward the far left corner of the kitchen at my laundry room door. I turned and followed him in there.
Brian set his clothes down and pulled the washer back from the wall so he could fix the hook-up. After messing with it for a minute, he pushed the washer back and opened the lid. Some of my clothes were inside—the ones I’d tried to wash right before going out to get cigarettes the night before.
“Do you care if I throw these in with your clothes?” he asked.
“No. I don’t care. And there’s some laundry detergent right there too.” I pointed to the shelf above the machine.
At this point I was just trying to treat him like a roommate. I didn’t know what he had done with those guns in my bedroom. He was a huge guy. Things seemed to be going my way, but he could hurt me at any time. And I needed to get out of this apartment. My position with him right here at the end was very, very important.
“Can I wash my face?” I asked him as we walked out of the laundry room. I felt like I needed to ask. He had been letting me do whatever I wanted in the apartment, and he was the one walking around asking me for permission. But I was starting to get anxious and didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize my chances of leaving. Just —I knew I didn’t have much time left.
“Yeah. Go ahead,” he said, taking his seat on the sofa.
&
nbsp; I went back into the bathroom now. I hadn’t been in here for a while. The guns were gone. The soda bottle, his red baseball hat, the wad of bills from his pants pocket, and the canister of pepper spray were still there on the counter. There was the picture of Paige and me where I’d left it by the sink. The burgundy candle had been blown out, but the small lamp on the counter near the linen cabinet was still on. The overhead light was on. The shower curtain was still partially open. The toilet lid was down. Everything looked pretty much the same.
And that one line of ice was still lying there on the counter with the Kroger card, the rolled-up twenty-dollar bill, my pink zipper pouch, and the tin.
I pulled a fresh hand towel out of the linen cabinet and then got my face soap off the shampoo rack hanging in the shower. There was his washcloth hanging on that rack right next to mine. I looked away—maybe there was blood on it—and went to stand in front of the sink. Then I looked at myself in the mirror. Wow, you look rough, Ashley. Really bad right now. I was totally and completely exhausted.
I turned on the water and bent down to wash off the day-old makeup. I could feel myself trying to hurry. I was having this fear right then that while my face was in the sink, he was going to walk up behind me and hit me over the head with something. Calm down, Ashley. You watch too many movies. He’s going to let you leave. Just stay calm.
I couldn’t remember the last time I had washed my face just to wake up, but this morning I knew I needed something. Standing there wiping my face off, I thought, “I just want to lie down so badly, but I’ve got to keep going.” I’d been up all night for basically two nights now. I looked at myself in that sweatshirt and ponytail, and I could hear Aunt Kim and them worrying and saying, “Gosh, look at her! She looks terrible!”
Just then I glanced back over at that line of ice again. There was the twenty-dollar bill. That’s been up his nose, Ashley. Yeah, but it’s still twenty bucks. And I’m leaving here. I need that money. I reached for the bill and shoved it into the pocket of my sweats.
