Squinting my eyes, I tried to see the face that stared back at me. In the dim evening light of the cell I could barely make out my short, pale brown hair. It hung close to my chin. I ran my fingers through it again, hating the fact of how quickly they came to the cropped ends. Pursing my lips, I could feel the tight lines spray out across my face. I ran a finger along them, feeling their dips and rises crinkle along my lips. They were nothing compared to Dr. Eriks’.
“You are beautiful, Millie.”
Startled out of my mindless staring contest with myself, I turned back to my mother. She still sat on the bed, legs crossed, hands resting on knees. A smile spread on her face as she watched me. Unlike Dr. Eriks’ smile, my mother’s smile always warmed me. Every time she smiled it was as if she had some secret brimming on her lips, wanting to explode out and be shared with the world.
“My pretty, pretty baby.”
“Mom, I am turning eighteen in a week. I am far from a baby now.”
“Oh Millie-Millie, you are my pretty baby.” My mother held out her arms, her fingers wiggling as she begged for me to come closer. I could hear her muttering ‘pretty baby’ over and over softly to herself.
The warm feeling that had just a moment ago flowed over me at the sight of her smile went suddenly cold.
She was lapsing again. My mother’s psychiatrist had declared her as ‘unstable.’ She would be completely lucid one moment, then would suddenly disappear into some distant world of her own the next. I had been told that if we lived out in the Nation, I would have been taken from her long ago, but because we were in Spokane I was ‘allowed’ to stay in her ‘care.’
Most times the lapses seemed to consist of me being a baby again. I used to love these moments, relishing in the deep hugs she would wrap around me. I could never seem to get enough. Until one day I realized the truth. That when these moments happened, she didn’t seem to know it was me. She would call me by my name and talk to me, but her eyes were always glazed over by some hidden ghost. I didn’t exist. Since then, I never let her hug me when she was ‘gone.’
I watched her a moment. Her smile was contagious on her face. It must have been beautiful once. Under the wrinkles of prison-ran life and the dirt smudges that never seemed to wash off, she held a beauty that refused to disappear.
The strange glaze that now covered her eyes tried hard to chase the beauty away. It brought to light the stray hairs that stood on end, the greasy blonde twists that hung in clumps on her shoulders. I saw the shadows under her eyes. The deep gulps she took as she gasped in frenzied breaths and wiggled her fingers, begging to hold her baby.
Without a word, I darted out of the cell.
Choking back a sob, I leaned against the thin slice of wall that separated our door from our neighbor’s. I let the weight of my body pull me down until I slid onto the floor. My hands shook as I ran them through my hair, still damp with the water I had just splashed onto my face. After eighteen years of living in the same cell with the same woman, I should have been used to those moments. But I hated them. I hated how I had to be the adult in this crazy, locked up world.
Lifting my chin I looked around. My father. He hadn’t been in the cell.
Typically a silent shadow that followed my mother around wherever she went, I rarely even noticed him. He would mumble to me sometimes, asking how my day was and if I had any plans for tomorrow. I tried to answer and start a conversation, but it always failed and left us sitting in silence. What is there to talk about, when every day is the same?
To me, my father was only one thing: a silent reflection of my mother. I wanted to feel a connection to him, but it was impossible to feel connected to someone who barely seemed connected to life.
Looking down the walkway, I strained my eyes to see if I could spot his familiar stooped figure. A few other inmates leaned against the railing or sat on the ground outside their cell. I saw one man reading a tattered book, another man carelessly bouncing a ball over and over again on the ground. A girl walked past me, carrying a handful of papers. As she passed a pencil rolled off the stack and fell with a clatter to the ground.
It rolled and bumped into my foot. I reached out and picked it up, my fingers wrapping around its thin wooden surface. Before I even thought about it, I lifted my eyes to the girl and held the pencil out.
“Th-Thanks,” she stuttered.
Squinting my eyes, I looked harder at her. She looked like she was just a year or two younger than me. I knew this girl. Fighting against the persistent fog in my mind, I tried to place her face and stutter. It slowly came to me. She had sat next to me in my classes, before I had opted out into independent study. She had always been mumbling to herself, her stutter causing her to slightly twitch when it got too intense. Her name was… I couldn’t remember it.
“942B?” she asked.
“Uh, yeah. How are you?” The words felt thick in my mouth, obviously forced.
“G-Good.” She forced a smile, one side of her mouth drooping slightly under a healing bruise. “H-How about you?”
I nodded, pulling my eyes away from the bruise. “Doing alright.”
“Sh-shouldn’t you have b-been let out b-b-by now?” the fellow Jail Baby asked.
“Next week. I turn eighteen next week.”
“Oh. Well. G-Good luck th-then. I hope t-t-to never see you again.”
I let a tiny smile spread on my face as I watched her shuffle away down the walk, her shoulder slightly twitching as she mumbled to herself. Her parting words weren’t meant to be harsh. Everyone in Spokane hoped to never see each other again. It wasn’t a hostile wish. It was the wish that you might never again be locked up inside these walls.
I banged my head softly against the wall, trying hard to remember the girl’s name, but it never came to me. I could only remember the bruise on her drooping lip and the twitch of her thin shoulder.
My back started to ache. I must have been sitting for at least an hour. Losing track of time was too easy in a place where every day, every minute, everything was the same. Standing up, I rubbed my back, stretching my other arm up over my head.
The groan that escaped my lips came to a quick halt as I heard something echo down the walk. Footsteps.Heavy footsteps. They weren’t the usual padding of worn out sneakers. These echoes were sharp, precise. Timed.
They were the echo of boots.
3
Pushing my back against the wall, I looked up to see two guards making their way slowly down the walk. They glanced into each cell as they passed, occasionally pausing a moment longer to stare inside before moving on.
Inspections.
I silently thanked myself that I had lined up my mother’s shoes. Glancing inside, I saw she had fallen asleep on the bed, one hand hanging over the edge, her fingers occasionally twitching as she dreamed. I let myself relax a bit, my back leaning once more against the cool wall.
I had known the older of the two guards for most of my life. Saying that I knew him might have been an overstatement. He had patrolled this walk for as long as I could remember, yet I could never remember his name. Still, just the fact that I easily recognized his casual walk and drawling voice made me feel as if I did know him, in some small, pathetic way. His eyes were always hooded, a yawn always trying to break through on his chubby face. He was never angry or rough like the other guards. He just seemed… indifferent.
My eyes trailed to the second guard. He was new. Tall and lean, his muscular arms and shoulders were evident through his armored uniform. His short cropped hair shone in sandy blonde waves. I could smell his hair gel and the hint of cologne from where I stood. He looked as if he were made for the prison guard uniform. As the old guard waddled along, glancing inside each cell as he passed, the new one walked beside him, looking down the walkway instead.
Looking at me.
His blue eyes locked onto me, watching. As a slow grin spread on his chiseled face, I felt a lump form in my throat. It was never good when a guard noticed you. Noticing you mea
nt that they had something on you. And having something was never good.
My mind reeled, retracing all of my steps. Appointments, exercise yard, laundry, schoolwork. I had done nothing out of the ordinary. I could feel the guard’s locked gaze out of the corner of his eyes. Even though he glanced away to take in the rest of the walk, the guard watched me.
“Hello 942B,” the chubby guard muttered.
He squeezed past me to lean into my family’s cell. I watched as he stared a moment at my sleeping mother, then as his eyes swept down to scan the ground. They paused on the shoes a moment before I heard him let out his usual grunt of approval. He backed out of the cell, rubbing his eyes with his chubby hand.
The new guard gazed into my cell, occasionally letting his eyes flick back to look at me. I shifted my weight to my other foot, glancing at the new guard whenever he looked away.
“Good morning sirs,” I said stiffly.
The chubby old guard stifled a yawn, his hooded eyes closing for a moment. Letting them droop back open, he caught me glancing tentatively at the new guard. “This is the new replacement day guard for Floor B,” he offered, his voice sleepy.
“Replacement?” I asked quickly, my voice squeaking slightly. Embarrassed, I pursed my lips shut, feeling the Dr. Eriks lines spread out.
“The Nation is finally letting me retire. Got a notice saying that I successfully completed my service and am now allowed to relax.” The chubby guard chuckled. “Relax meaning moving onto some desk job,” he mumbled under his breath. Stretching his arms in front of him, he added, “It’s alright though. I have had about enough of this walk.”
“Oh. Okay,” I replied softly, my eyes glancing over to the new guard.
He smiled at me, his arms folding across his solid chest as it rose and fell in perfect rhythmic breathing. The chubby guard motioned to the new one. “Carl GF4 gets to have this exciting job now.”
“Oh yes, very exciting,” the new guard, Carl, replied. He winked at me. I felt a chill go down my spine, but managed to keep my face calm as I looked back at him.
“Well, come on Carl. Gotta finish the line, then I can finally clock out for good.” The chubby guard glanced at me. “Be good, 942B.” With that, he moved on to the next cell, leaning his chubby frame inside. Carl watched me a moment longer, then silently followed.
Swallowing the lump that was still solid in my tight throat, I ducked back into my cell. I had suddenly remembered the dry thirst that had been growing and stretching through me all day. Cranking on the faucet, I grabbed my old metal cup from the shelf and filled it with the warm water that poured out, then tilted my head back and swallowed a large gulp. The water tasted like metal, stale and too warm to fully quench my thirst. I didn’t care. It felt good to fill my stomach with something other than butterflies.
Something stirred behind me. I let my eyes lift to glance into the metal mirror. A dark figure was standing there, the familiar stoop of the shoulders relaxing my nerves. I didn’t say anything. Turning away, I tilted the cup to take another mouthful of the metallic water.
“Hi Millie,” he said, his voice slow and distant like always.
“Where have you been?” I asked, not bothering to reply to his greeting.
“Huh? Oh. My appointment.”
“Your appointment?” I turned, my brow furrowing in confusion. “You didn’t have an appointment today. Your appointment is always at the same time as Mom’s.”
My father sat gently on the edge of the lower bunk, barely squeezing on as he tried to not stir my mother. With a grunt he pulled off his shoes, carefully lining them alongside the bottom of the bunk. “They, uh, they changed it. They want to see us separate now.”
For the last eighteen years my parents had been going to all of their appointments together. My mind reeled, wondering why they suddenly were being forced to be seen apart. Then something in my mind clicked. Moving toward my father, I waited until he looked up then locked my eyes onto his.
“It’s because of me, isn’t it?”
He offered a sleepy grin. “Of course it is, Millie. You are about to turn eighteen. Of course it is.” His words faded out. Licking his dry lips, he laid down next to my mother. “They said dinner is in cell again tonight.”
I nodded. I had heard that too. “Don’t sleep too long then, okay? I don’t want you missing dinner again.”
“If I do, just have mine, Millie. No use letting it go to waste.”
His eyes fluttered shut. I knew the conversation was over.
When I was younger, I would always jump at that offer. I would wait and see if he fell asleep early, then eagerly devour his small share of food. It wasn’t until recently that I realized those nights that I ate his offered ration, he didn’t eat at all. Once, while chomping down on a stale roll, I caught his eyes fluttering, watching me eat as he pretended to sleep. That had been the last night I let myself eat my father’s food.
Letting out a slow breath between my teeth, I pulled the thin blanket over both of my parents. When they slept, they looked so happy and peaceful. My father always draped his arm over my mother, pulling her in protectively against his body, shielding her from any sleep demons that may have tried to snatch her away.
“Why can’t you be that protective when you’re awake?” I whispered, the words barely passing my lips before they disappeared.
The sound of metal grating across cement echoed in the cell. Turning, I saw the tray with three covered plates waiting in the doorway. Knowing that in a few minutes the inmate who was on food delivery duty would be back for the tray, I snatched the plates up and moved them to balance on top of the sink. I could smell the usual aroma of a tuna sandwich and a cup of some sort of sliced fruit. Variety wasn’t something the prison cared much for.
Lifting the lid to one plate, I saw I was right. Apples, browned and wrinkling from the time they had sat in the open air before being delivered to our cell, filled a small bowl. Along with the sandwich and fruit, there was a small carton of milk. That was it. My stomach growled, hungrily reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
Carefully stacking my parent’s plates under the sink, I grabbed mine and climbed up to the top bunk. The pad was all but flat underneath me. My back already hurt at the idea of having to sleep on it tonight. We were already six months past due for new bedding, with no word about the hopeful change. I didn’t even hold my breath anymore.
Picking up half of the sandwich, I tentatively took a bite. There was always too much mayonnaise, leaving the sandwich mushy and wet. Even though I didn’t need to, I sat and chewed the mush, letting my eyes close as I leaned my head against the wall.
I felt something crinkle as I settled down. Reaching under my leg, I found the piece of yellow paper from my session, still wadded into a tight ball. It must have fallen out of my pocket when I climbed up. Sitting back again, I took another bite of my sandwich and flattened out the paper.
My name is Millie 942B.
Next week is my eighteenth birthday. And I dread it with every fiber in my body…
Something still nagged at me when I read it. I almost felt ashamed as the words sunk in. Like I should have never written them to begin with.
Shoving the last bite of the sandwich into my mouth, I pulled out my old notebook. Dr. Eriks had given it to me a year ago for my journaling assignments. I could tell it had already been used by someone before me. The cover was ragged. The pages hung limp, dog-eared, the spine giving away how many sheets were already missing. Still, it was mine. Few things in here actually belonged to me, so I couldn’t complain about this one used notebook. It was mine.
Pulling my pencil out of the spine, I flipped it open to a new page. As soon as the pencil touched the paper though, my mind froze. I couldn’t think of anything to write. For some reason, writing a journal entry about my mushy sandwich or my still unstable mother seemed useless. I had written about it all one too many times.
The face of the new guard, Carl, flashed in front of my eyes.
I pushed the pencil against the paper, then stopped myself before the first word could form. My body started to shake. For some reason, I suddenly felt uneasy. The thought of writing my thoughts about him had stopped my pencil dead.
Giving up, I flipped the notebook shut and leaned back against the wall again. I looked over at the browned apples, my mouth twisting into a frown. I had never been a fan of apples. There was something about their texture that just bugged me. Seeing them sliced in the bowl, browning and already bad, didn’t entice me to take a bite.
I pushed the tray aside, then swung my legs over the edge of the bunk and slid to the ground. My parents were fast asleep. My father softly snored, his mouth hanging open in his sleep, a thin line of saliva already trickling down his rough cheek. There was no doubt about whether or not he was faking. I quietly crept over and divided my apple slices into each of their bowls. Then I sat back on the ground, the coolness of the cement helping to keep me awake.
Something buzzed, loud and harsh. I barely twitched as the sound cut through the night. I could hear the sudden rush of feet hurrying down the walkway. The inmates were all returning to their cells for the night, the buzz warning them that it was five minutes until the doors shut and locked, leaving those locked out to be sent straight to the Hole.
The footsteps died down. I could hear the murmuring rise of the inmates as they crowded into their cells. The few that still passed were the older ones, unable to move as fast. On floor B, there were a lot of older inmates.
Floor B was the floor of Lifers.
The buzz cut through the air again. I could hear the familiar crank of gears rev up, then the slide of doors as they snapped shut, one after the other down the walk. Our cell’s turn finally arrived. The door slid out from the wall, slow at first, then suddenly snapping shut tight as if it had been kicked awake. It was solid, with a small grating along the top and about three inches shy of meeting the ground. Just enough room was left along the bottom for the medicine that was slid in each night.
Right on time, I heard the matching footsteps of the two nurses as they made their way down the walk. They stopped before each cell, asked if everything was alright, then promptly passed along any prescribed medicine. Occasionally, during some nights, you would hear an inmate demand medicine that he wasn’t prescribed. Usually a quick ‘no’ would suffice, but sometimes the inmate wouldn’t let up. The quick, heavy footfalls of a guard as he approached the cell would echo down the walk to calm the situation. There had been a few times I had heard the door grate back open, then the demanding would abruptly be silenced. I hated those nights. Tonight, luckily, all was calm.
What Tomorrow May Bring Page 57
