“Fine,” Reginald muttered. “But I’m not doing this because I want to. You’ve given me no choice here so I have to. I hope you’re right about your daughter, Roxanne. I really hope you’re right.”
“I know I am, Reginald. I didn’t raise her to be a suburban housewife. I raised her to be a strong, independent woman; a doormat to no one. Like the headlines said, living in suburbia drove me to madness. My daughter has a chance to live the life she should lead, not one shifted in another direction because of one misstep.”
“I don’t consider killing two people a misstep and neither does the law. The crime scene was horrific. Bloody. That girl unleashed a lot of anger and fury, up close and personal.”
“In her case, it was. She’ll follow a new road, travel the right path. I know it. I wouldn’t have bet the rest of my life on it if I had any doubts.”
Grabbing his briefcase from the table, Reginald scowled. “Don’t forget you risked mine and the rest of my family’s, too, Roxanne. Looks like my punishment is getting to spend the rest of my life praying you made the right decision.”
“Ditto. Oh, one more thing?”
“What?”
“Make sure to tell Rebecca not to let Carol come visit me until she’s ready. I want her to concentrate on healing and her schoolwork, not dealing with the fact she has to visit her mother behind bars. Okay?”
“Fine.” Reginald gave me one last dirty look then left me standing in the attorney/inmate visiting room.
I watched him walk away while doing the same thing he said he’d do: Praying I made the right choice.
CHAPTER 14
Orange Is Not A Good Color On Anyone
For the next three months, I learned to acclimatize to my new surroundings. Living in an eight-by-eight cell on an uncomfortable mattress in desperate need of being burned was such fun. Not! Febreze, people! Buy some! Better yet, have you heard about a nifty new product called bleach? It works great on all those stains from God-only-knows-what type of bodily fluids left behind by the previous occupants of this hellhole. Seriously—hit up the dollar store and fill up the cart! Prison is freaking demerit central!
Every single minute of my life was controlled by someone else. Freedom and privacy were no longer in my vocabulary. Ding! Time for breakfast. Ding! Time for lunch. Ding! Outside to exercise. Ding! Off to my new job, which pays nothing—sort of like being a wife. That part I was used to and it didn’t bother me so much. Ding! Time for dinner. Ding! Bed check.
The food was beyond wretched. Perhaps the prison used Beef Medley dog chow to stretch the food budget? It wouldn’t surprise me in the least because it was so disgusting it made school cafeteria slop seem like five-star meals and lunch ladies across the nation Top Chefs.
I missed Moscato and smoking whenever I wished.
Using the bathroom in private.
Laughing with Liz.
The painful visits with Mom.
Book club.
My house.
Carl, or at least, the younger version I like to remember, the sexy football player who made my knees weak.
Hell, a small part of me even missed Rebecca.
Oh, that’s it! I really am crazy if I miss Lunatic Bitch!
All those things combined didn’t even add up to the pain of missing Carol. Every night I sobbed quietly inside my dark cell, wishing I could change the way things happened.
But, I couldn’t. Carol’s life was ruined by a pathetic father and a sick, warped mother.
At night, I thought back over every detail of the month our lives changed, and concluded when Carol went to eat with Carl he must have spilled the beans. The scumbag told our naïve, unprepared 18-year-old the real reasons behind our divorce and the news about soon becoming an older sister. The conversation must have broken Carol’s heart, and she raced home to talk to me, only to find me passed out on the floor of the bathroom, clothes, bloody knife, and an empty pill bottle inside a bag.
And then, she found my journal.
Perhaps it was the other way around and Carol found the journal first. She came home to a dark house, assumed I was asleep, decided to snoop and see what I’d been writing. In the end, the order didn’t matter. What mattered was Carol’s young mind snapped, just like my older one had, and the sick, sadistic plans I’d written down gave her the idea to unleash her pain.
When Liz appeared at the front door and dropped the bomb about Coco’s murder, I was so stunned I didn’t grasp the news about Carl’s and Ginger’s deaths. Not even when being interrogated at the police station. It wasn’t until I saw the photo of a woman who looked just like me standing on the steps of a bus, did I realize I didn’t know where Ginger Holloway lived—which meant I didn’t kill my husband or Hottie Habanero.
The woman in black on the bus did.
The woman wearing Carol’s sunglasses.
Carol.
My clone. A girl with jet-black hair, long legs, ample chest.
Part of me died right there in the police station while staring at the image of my little girl on her way to kill her father and his whore.
Demerit overload! Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!
The first two months of my time behind bars I was a basket case, barely sleeping, reliving all the things I’d done wrong, culminating in the utter destruction of Carol’s life. When my mind wandered back to high school and college, a twinge of remorse for beating Carl’s ass surfaced. It didn’t last long and, honestly, all of the happy memories of our life together didn’t seem to be enough for me to shed one tear over what happened to him.
Not even one little whimper.
How fucked-up is that? I’d spent half my life beside the man and bore his child, sharing intimate moments both physically and sexually, yet no tears? Did I lose my moral compass somewhere along the journey to adulthood?
Did I ever even have one?
Yes, I did but it shattered the day at the cemetery.
The only good thing to come out of this was most of the other inmates steered clear of me. Not just because I’m a tall, strong woman, or they feared me, though I think a few did. Most seemed to stand back and sort of look at me with a weird sense of awe, all fully aware who, and why, I murdered.
Liz and Juanita were right on that part—other women who’d been cheated on would gravitate to my life story, and they did. Reporters still tried to see me, though I refused to meet with even one. Piles of mail arrived for me each week from fans, which I tossed, along with several offers from publishers about writing a book.
Pathetic. I’m a cold-bloodied killer yet some seemed to revere me as a quasi-celebrity. What is wrong with people? What happened to revering real heroes, like our soldiers, first responders, or even comic book characters? When did humanity’s collective mindset shift and start revering monsters? Suburbia—no, the entire world—needs an enema.
Stat.
The third month, probably because I’d been a “housewife” in my former life, I was assigned to work in the kitchen. There weren’t a whole lot of ingredients to work with and I was thrilled I never spotted one can of dog food hidden on the back shelves. But I did alter some of the dishes, adding different spices and such, making the food easier to eat.
Though I didn’t enjoy my new digs or the thought of spending the rest of my life incarcerated, what bothered me the most were the pockets of confusion and missing chunks of time I’d lost. True to my previous nature, I kept a journal, detailing my thoughts and experiences behind bars. I’d write things down, read them once and then crush the sheets of paper into tight balls, flushing them down the commode. I feared one day I’d write something I shouldn’t and the wrong person would get their hands on it and ruin Carol’s life.
Again.
That just wouldn’t do at all. Yes, I attempted to live my life by a new set of rules, but one from the old Handbook was permanently entrenched inside my heart.
Rule Number Eleven: One must defend their family, no matter what. The rule trumps everything else, even if t
he defense comes in the form of bodily harm to another or the destruction of the defender.
Oh look! A credit in my jar—one no one would ever see since it was overshadowed by demerits.
It took a lot of effort to toss out my words, since I’d been such an obsessed note taker my entire life. All my thoughts, worries, fears, dreams for Carol; the words were sections of my soul and it somehow felt wrong to throw pieces of myself down the can. I cried the first time I watched the paper disappear down the drain.
I mean, seriously, I need something to do besides stare at the gray walls and flooring, counting bugs. Sometimes, I’d be in the middle of a sentence and stop, my mind completely blank as to what I’d been thinking, or able to recall what my day had been like.
These issues started last year but only happened sporadically. I’d attributed them to bouts with too much alcohol and, like Carl said, the stress of losing my father, Mom’s downward slide into dementia, and Rachel’s death. After the terrible phone call from Dr. Critchon, being sober for over three months, the rate which the memory lapses and confusion increased, I knew better. I’d seen it all before from the outside and now from the inside. The knowledge terrified me.
Sometimes, when the bell rang in the morning, I’d wake up in a complete state of panic, no clue where I was, and start screaming. Then, last Tuesday, during the twice-weekly mandatory counseling sessions, I woke up on the floor, covered in sweat and tears, the prison-assigned therapist patting my face.
When I asked her what happened, she looked at me like I was running a line of bullshit. After realizing I wasn’t, she told me I’d flipped out, stood, started pacing in circles, arms wrapped around my chest, begging someone to tell me where I was, how I got here, and why they kept asking me to talk about the killings.
Once, I went totally blank in the kitchen while attempting to prepare dinner. I couldn’t remember how to fix spaghetti, why I was doing it, or who all the women in the kitchen were. Total mind-break, like someone took a towel and wiped that section of my brain clean.
At night I’d sit on my bunk, gaze fixed on the spots in the ceiling, and sob. Not just for all I’d lost, but for what I just concluded I was about to lose: My mind. “Just like Mom,” I whispered. “Just like Mom.”
The conversation with Dr. Critchon played over and over inside my head. “I went ahead and did a full workup on you, including genetic tests, Mrs. Davenport, given your family history. I’m sorry to say the test results indicate you have the genetic markers for autosomal dominant Alzheimer’s disease, just like your mother. It’s rare and runs in families and tends to show up early in life. You should inform all your blood relatives and have them get tested as well.”
Knowing Carol didn’t test positive was a blessing, and even though I was still angry at Rebecca, I was glad she didn’t have the markers either. Not because of some sudden shift in my opinion of her but because she needed a normal mind to continue to care for Carol and Mom.
The conversation with Carol in the hot tub the night I lied to her and told her the whitewashed version of why her father and I were getting a divorce, roars back.
“There’s nothing worse than losing your mind. When I’m old, I want my body to give out, not my brain.”
The only sliver of happiness I could find in the situation was that once my thoughts were forever trapped inside the hallways of my mind—just like Mom’s were—I wouldn’t remember all the pain and sorrow I’d caused the people I loved.
Of course, I couldn’t let that happen.
One morning I was busy writing in my journal, shocked to discover five months had passed, ignoring the continuous noise around me. My penmanship was atrocious since a new, fun symptom of my disease appeared: Tremors in my hands. It was visiting day, and the entire cell block was abuzz with activity as other inmates tromped down the aisles to the visitation room to see their loved ones.
“Davenport, you’ve got a visitor.”
Looking up from the paper, I grimaced at the guard staring at me from the other side of the bars. I assumed she was joking, since no one had come to see me after the visit with Reginald months ago. “Not funny.”
“Not kidding. Get up.”
I’d decided weeks ago that it must be a prerequisite to be a hardcore, rude, nasty bitch to apply and be hired as a correction officer. What rock did these women crawl out from under? They had no manners, no social skills, and certainly no traces of femininity. A few even wore men’s cologne. I remember someone telling me, once, that the guards in prison were really men trapped inside women’s bodies, yet I couldn’t recall who told me. Guess it didn’t matter who said it. Truth was truth.
“Is it my attorney?”
“Nope. Some hoity-toity society bitch. You know, like you used to be? The kind that looks like she spends all her free time at the salon and drives a Mercedes.”
My heart skipped two beats. Could it be? I let the mask of bravado I normally wore slip a little. “Elizabeth Rosenbaum?”
“Yeah, I think that’s what her name tag read. Come on, you’ve got thirty minutes.”
Closing the journal, I stood and followed Officer Twatwaffle McBitchy down the aisle to the visitation room. When she opened the door, I gasped.
Sure enough, perched on the edge of a plastic chair sat Liz. She tried her best to hide emotions from her lovely face, but I saw the disgust. Biting my lip, I looked down at my clothes. Faded and wrinkled, the ensemble made me look like a shriveled up pumpkin rotting in an abandoned field.
Orange is not the new black nor is it an appealing color on anything. Period.
The walk across the room seemed to take forever. Liz’s gaze flickered back and forth as she took in everything around her, including all the noisy children clamoring for the attention of their incarcerated mothers. She finally spotted me when I was several feet away. Her eyes grew wide with shock.
Stopping in front of the table between us, I tried to give her my best smile. What came out, I’m sure, was a strange smirk. At a loss as to what to say or do, I simply said: “Hey, Liz.”
Swallowing several times while blinking back tears, Liz answered: “Hi, Roxy. You, uh, look great.”
I’d heard Liz tell some big fibs over the years but that one topped them all. Always the proper wife and citizen—full of grace and wonderful charm—she was doing her best to seem genuine. I burst out laughing. “And you’re full of shit. I look like Casper and the Great Pumpkin’s bastard offspring.”
Tension finally broken; Liz laughed too and stood to hug me. Though brief, it was wonderful. She still smelled the same. Maybe I should ask her if she had some perfume stashed in her purse and to leave it.
“I see your sense of humor is still intact. God, Roxy, I’ve missed you.”
Pointing to the plastic chairs, we both sat and held hands across the table. “I’ve missed you too, Liz. It’s weird—I’ve wanted to see you yet hoped you’d stay away. I love you but didn’t want you to see me like this.”
“I’m sorry it took me so long, but all this has been a lot to take in. Plus, I wanted to make sure Carol was okay and all settled in at school.”
While studying Liz’s face, the memories of taking turns helping each other when our children were little roared back. They made me feel nostalgic and nauseous at the same time. Richard was a senior now, and ever since the kids were in diapers, our plan was to take a Route 66 tour of America once both kids were in college.
“You’re the best, you know that? Seriously. Thank you for all you’ve done for her.”
Flicking away a tear, Liz said: “Welcome. She’s like my daughter, too, so how could I not?”
“How’s she doing?”
“She loves school, but that’s not a surprise. The girl’s been itching to be a vet ever since the first day you brought the puppy home, remember?”
“Puppy? We never had a dog.”
The look on Liz’s face was almost funny. It was a weird mixture of confusion and concern. “Ralphie, remember?”
/> Searching my memories, I tried to picture the Davenport household with a mutt running around. I came up with squat. “Stop teasing me, Liz. Yes, Carol’s had her heart set on being a vet, but only because she wanted to be like Rebecca.”
Liz furrowed her brow. “You mean Rachel.”
A dull headache pressed against my temples and my hands started to shake. “Uh, yeah. Rachel.”
Leaning forward, Liz whispered: “What’s wrong, Roxy? Are they giving you medication or something because they think you’re dangerous?”
A spark of anger made me grit my teeth. I didn’t appreciate the stupid game Liz was playing. “Why would you think that, Liz? Is that why you came here? To see how far I’ve fallen, mock me, say things to confuse me? Did Sasha send you here to spy on me so you could report back to those hags in book club what life is like for me now?”
“Roxy! What a thing to say to me. Of course not. I love you—and I’m not trying to confuse you. In fact, I’m the one who’s confused. You had a dog for years named Ralphie. You’re the one who mixed up the names of your sisters, not me. I’m sorry, I just assumed the prison had you on some sort of medication that’s messing with your memory, that’s all.”
I started shaking. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. I just—I’m having trouble remembering things—missing sections of time. It freaks me out because I know what it means, and that it won’t get any better. Soon, I’ll be living in Hell on earth, just like my mom. Remember the day I stepped outside and took that call, right before book club?”
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t from my lawyer. It was Dr. Critchon, informing me I carry the same genetic marker as Mom.”
More tears trickled down Liz’s face as she reached out for my hands again. “Oh, Roxy. I’m so sorry. When did you start having symptoms?”
Marriage Made Me Do It Page 16
