by A. H. Kim
A: We drove straight to the house.
Q: Which house: the Princeton house or the St. Michaels house?
A: The Princeton house. The St. Michaels house wasn’t built yet.
Q: Was Ms. Lindstrom waiting for you at the house?
A: No, only Maria. Oh, and Claire of course. Claire was just a baby then. She was so cute with her chubby cheeks and big brown eyes. She was like a living doll, you know?
Q: Did you meet Ms. Lindstrom later that day?
A: Um, no, not that day. I don’t think we met until a couple days later.
Q: You didn’t meet Ms. Lindstrom until a couple days after you arrived?
A: Yeah, that’s right.
Q: Did you find that strange?
A: Find what strange?
Q: Did you find it strange that you traveled all the way from Sweden to be her au pair but she wasn’t there to welcome you?
A: Well, now that you mention it, I guess it was a little strange. But, you know, I’d never been an au pair before, and I’d never been to America either. I didn’t know what to expect. Anyway, Beth is just different.
Q: What do you mean: Beth is just different?
A: I mean Beth’s not like most women. She doesn’t cook, clean, that kind of stuff. She’s all fancy, you know? She grew up in the Swedish Embassy with her own cook and driver.
Q: So you’re telling us that Ms. Lindstrom had a privileged life. Is that what you mean by “being different”?
A: You don’t know Beth, do you? My God, she’s different in so many ways.
beth
four
I stare at the van’s passenger-side mirror as we leave the parking lot and cross over to the other side—the federally restricted side—of the one-armed gate.
“Objects in mirror are closer than they appear,” I read in the etched glass surface. Hannah stands in the same spot that I left her, waving pathetically, while Sam climbs back into the car, his face impassive.
It’s gonna be a long trip home.
I check out my new surroundings. To the naked eye, Alderson doesn’t look too bad. Colonial-style brick buildings, neatly trimmed lawns, leafy trees. I half expect to see someone driving a golf cart or giving a campus walking tour.
Up the grassy hill, I spot a line of khaki-clad women exiting a building and walking down a path. Headed to dinner, maybe? They appear to be on their own, no guard in sight. Except for my van driver, I don’t see any guards at all. No razor wire either. The only thing separating me from freedom is that lousy one-armed gate.
“You’re late,” the guard mutters.
“Sorry,” I say, not sorry at all.
“Did ya come far?”
“Pretty far.”
“Ya married to that Chinese guy?”
“He’s Korean. And yes.”
“No offense. I can’t tell ’em apart.”
Seriously? I have no words.
We pull up in front of a boxy brick building.
“Well, here we are,” the guard says, “R&D.”
“R&D?” I ask. In my line of business, R&D stands for research and development, but I doubt there’s much of that going on around here.
“Receiving and discharge.”
The guard gets out of the van. I follow her up the steps of the building into an empty room with cheap vinyl floors and buzzing fluorescent lights. I can practically feel my soul getting sucked out of me.
“Wait here,” the guard says. She points to a plastic bench along the wall and leaves.
As I sit and wait, I slip off my Chanel espadrilles and admire my toenails. Royal blue, red, gray, with a French tip of white. New York Giants colors. I had them done yesterday. I figure the gel polish will last a month if I’m careful.
One month down, one hundred—plus or minus—more to go.
“You here to self-surrender?” someone says.
I look up. Another guard. Male this time.
“Yeah,” I say, slipping my shoes back on.
“You’re late,” he says. “Last admission is at five o’clock.”
He points at the plain white clock on the wall. It reads 5:15.
“Great, I’ll just get out of your way, then,” I’m tempted to wisecrack. Instead, I just nod.
“You have your IDs?” he asks.
I walk over and hand him my Social Security card and driver’s license.
He starts filling out one of those government-issue forms, the kind with the white top page and the pink and goldenrod carbons. He holds up my driver’s license and compares my face to the photo, like a bartender checking a fake ID.
That’s right, I’m trying to sneak my way into prison.
Fucking idiot.
“Okay, this way,” he says.
He walks me over to a smaller room where I see the original guard—the one who drove me in the van. She closes the door and tells me to strip.
I feel like the star of some low-budget porno flick. I strip down to my underwear and bra while the guard watches. She can’t take her eyes off me.
“All your clothes,” she says.
I obey.
“Run your fingers through your hair.”
“Really?” I ask.
I take it from the guard’s scowl that she’s not in the mood for questions.
What’s next, I wonder. Lick my lips and pout?
“Okay,” she says, “now open your mouth and lift your tongue.”
As I follow the guard’s orders, I can feel my nipples getting hard from the window air conditioner set to Arctic. I hope she doesn’t take it as a compliment. I’m not sure why I need to be stark naked while she inspects the inside of my mouth. I feel like a goddamn cow at the Iowa State Fair.
“Now squat and cough,” she says.
Damn, just when I thought it couldn’t get any more humiliating. I wonder if anyone has ever just shit on the spot, leaving a big pile of steaming feces on the floor as an FU to the whole US criminal injustice system.
“Stand and lift your arms.”
After she makes sure I haven’t concealed any assault weapons in my pits, the guard hands me a small bundle of clothes.
“I’ll give you a minute to get dressed,” she says. She opens the door to leave.
Now she’s giving me privacy?
I slip into my new wardrobe of khaki polyester-blend separates and canvas slip-ons. The elastic-waistband slacks are super flattering. I haven’t worn tube socks since middle school gym.
There’s a knock on the door.
“Ready?” the guard asks, peeking through the crack in the door.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say.
“Want your clothes sent home?”
“What are my options?”
“Send ’em home or destroy ’em.”
I look at the pile of clothes on the floor and imagine Sam’s confused reaction when they arrive in the mail. Sam’s not good at figuring things out on his own.
“We pay for shipping,” she says. As if that’s the reason for my hesitation.
“Just destroy them,” I finally say.
We head down a hallway to an area that looks like a nursing station at a hospital. There’s a group of three guards drinking coffee in foam cups and shooting the shit. When they see us approaching, they stop talking. Two of them walk away, like they’ve got something they need to get back to. Maybe a box of stale donuts.
“Late admission, self-surrender,” my guard says, handing over my paperwork.
The clerk at the nursing station looks annoyed. I just ruined her day by making her do her job. After reading through my pile of forms, she turns to her computer—some crappy circa-2000 Compaq with Post-it notes all over the monitor—and logs in. Based on her Post-its, I’d guess her password is ILoveKitty. I wonder if that’s her
cat or her girlfriend.
“Give me your hand,” the clerk orders.
She grabs my hand, rolls each finger on a spongy cushion of ink and then rolls them on a piece of paper. When we’re through, the clerk pulls a premoistened wipe from a nearby pop-up container and gives it to me. The baby powder fragrance reminds me of Ally.
“Okay, stand over there, by the wall.”
I look over at the wall opposite the nursing station. It’s white and completely blank except for a neon-green Post-it that says “Stand Here.”
There’s a camera bolted to the nursing station. The clerk looks through the eyepiece and adjusts the camera angle.
I stand in front of the Post-it and look straight at the camera. No smile. No smirk. I don’t want to look smug, just in case TMZ gets my mug shot.
A machine on the nursing station ejects a bright red plastic card. The clerk looks at it, loops on a black lanyard and hands it over to me.
“Federal Bureau of Prisons—INMATE,” it says in large black type. In case my all-khaki ensemble doesn’t give me away.
Elisabeth Lindstrom, 88299-050.
At least they got the spelling right.
The next few hours are a blur of mindless interviews and bureaucratic bullshit. As I’m led from room to room, I push my shoulders back, stand tall and stare straight ahead. I’m not gonna let this experience get me down.
“Okay, Lindstrom, you’re good to go,” my van-driving guard finally says.
“Now what?” I ask.
“Unit A2.” The guard walks me out of R&D and points uphill toward a cluster of buildings.
“Are you coming with me?”
She shakes her head. “I got stuff to do down here. Just head up the hill. A Building’s on your right. Ya can’t miss it.” With that, she goes back inside, leaving me alone.
After all we’ve been through, I thought we had something special.
I’m a little out of breath when I get to the top of the hill. At least I’ll be able to get into shape while I’m in prison.
A group of women wearing white T-shirts and heather-gray shorts stands in the middle of the quad-like lawn, chatting and laughing. They all stop talking and stare at me. I often have that effect on people.
“Hey, Blondie, ya lookin’ for A or B?” one of them shouts.
“A,” I shout back.
“Over there,” she says, pointing to the nearest building.
I nod in thanks, and the women return to their chatter.
Entering A Building, I suddenly feel like a real inmate. The prison looks pretty much like what I’ve seen in movies. Cinder block walls painted institutional white. More cheap vinyl floors and buzzing fluorescent lights. Up front is a guards’ station manned by uniformed officers. And everywhere, women of all shapes, races and sizes—mostly XL and XXL—rush by in a khaki-clad stream of humanity.
“Lindstrom?” a female officer asks as I approach the guards’ station.
“Yeah.”
“You’re late.”
“Sorry,” I say, still not sorry.
“Next count’s in thirty minutes, and lights-out at ten o’clock,” she says. She reaches into a cabinet and hands me a big pile of stuff. A dark gray, scratchy-wool blanket. Two threadbare sheets. A sad, flat fiberfill pillow. A clear plastic bag with motel-size soap, toothbrush and mini-tube of toothpaste.
“Count?” I ask. I follow the woman down a corridor lined on either side with identical cinder block sleeping compartments.
“Ask Flores, she’ll teach you the ropes,” she says, stopping in front of a compartment. She motions to the raven-haired woman sitting on the bottom bunk, who’s got her nose deep in a pulp paperback.
“Flores, this is Lindstrom, your new bunkie,” the officer says. As she leaves, I hear the echoes of her heavy black boots making their way back to the guards’ station.
“Hey, I’m Lindstrom. Beth Lindstrom.”
I sound like James Fucking Bond.
“Juanita Flores,” she replies. She puts her book facedown on the mattress, wriggles out of her bunk and shakes my hand. I notice she’s got an awesome manicure.
“Nice nails,” I say. “Gel?”
Juanita looks pleased.
“No, it’s regular polish. But, like, three thin coats and a shiny topcoat. The girls here are fricking mani-pedi geniuses. And they’re not even Vietnamese.”
“So, what’re you reading?” I ask. I point to the paperback on her bunk.
“Murder on the Orient Express,” she says. “I’ve probably read it a million times, but I can never get enough of mysteries. You read it?”
“No, but I saw the movie. A long time ago.”
“Movies are never as good as the book,” she says. “I’ll show you how to make your bed.” She reaches over to grab the sheets from my pile of stuff.
“How hard can it be to make a bed?” I want to ask—although now that I think about it, I can’t actually remember the last time I did.
“Six times a day, we have count, which means you need to be at your bunk,” Juanita says. “Every morning by first count, your bed needs to be inspection ready. If your bed’s not perfect, you get a shot.”
“A shot?” I ask.
“Yeah, it’s kinda like a speeding ticket. You get enough shots, you lose TV privileges, get more time, whatever. So, whatcha do is make the bed all perfect and sleep on top.”
Juanita secures the sheet on the mattress with hospital corners, drapes it partway down, then folds it back up.
“Gimme the blanket,” she says.
She tucks the blanket into the foot of the bed, draws it up to the head and then folds the sheet over the edge. In a few deft moves, Juanita’s created the appearance of a perfectly made bed with just one sheet—the same way we used to short-sheet our counselors’ bunks at summer camp.
“Light’s out every night at ten o’clock,” Juanita continues. “When you’re ready to go to sleep, you spread the second sheet on top of the blanket and lie on it. These sheets are crappy, but at least they’re better than the horse blankets, which are itchy as shit.”
Juanita pulls a colorful granny-square afghan from her footlocker. “It gets cold at night. You can borrow this ’til you get your own stuff.” She folds the afghan neatly in thirds and places it at the foot of my bed.
Everyone will tell you: I’m no softie. But in that moment, I’m close to tears.
“So, does everyone do this?” I ask.
“Do what?”
“Sleep on top of their bed?”
“Yup.”
“No one actually sleeps under the blanket?”
“Nope.”
“And the guards don’t know?”
“Of course, they know.”
“But they never check? They never look under the covers?”
Juanita eyes me up and down and smiles.
“You should know, chica,” she says. “The only thing anyone cares about is how things look. No one gives a shit about what’s real.”
hannah
five
After spending three weeks with Sam and the girls, it’s hard coming back to my empty one-bedroom condo in Hoboken. There’s a pile of legal research assignments waiting for me at the law firm, which lifts my spirits a little, but my normal life suddenly feels small and boring. So when I see the Alderson return address on the plain white envelope in my mailbox, it provides a welcome bit of excitement.
“I know I’m asking a lot,” Beth writes, “but could you come visit me soon? I really need to talk to someone, and you’re the one person I know who’ll listen without judgment.”
Beth’s letter combines both guilt and flattery, an intoxicating mix. It breaks my heart to think about Beth having to be separated from Sam and the girls for nearly ten years, but it also warms my heart to think that Beth—th
e beautiful and powerful Elisabeth Lindstrom with her 1,001 Facebook friends—would seek out my company above all others.
That weekend, I rent a car and wake before dawn to make the seven-hour-plus drive to Alderson. Pulling into the prison parking lot, a song comes on the radio that I haven’t heard in decades, the falsetto voices singing something about love and money. The digital display scrolls the name Bronski Beat, a band that was popular my freshman year in college. It’s tempting to sit and listen through to the end of the song, but the dashboard clock shows it’s already getting late. I take a deep breath, pull the Ziploc bag out of my purse and turn off the engine. I walk up the pathway to the visitors’ building, where a uniformed female guard sits at the reception desk. She motions for me to enter.
“Step forward,” the guard orders.
“I’m here to visit Elisabeth Lindstrom.”
“Do you have your form?” she asks. “Because if you don’t have a form, you’ll have to go back outside and fill one out.” Having done my research, I hand the guard a Bureau of Prisons visitors’ form, neatly filled out in ink with Beth’s full name and federal inmate number and my identification information. The guard looks the form over and checks my driver’s license, then makes me turn out my pockets to prove I’m not smuggling in anything.
“Okay, then,” the guard says. “Sign your name in the register and wait for your inmate.” At the end of the reception desk is a large ledger along with one of those ballpoint pens on a chain that you only ever see at the post office or bank.
The visiting room is so crowded, there’s hardly a place to sit. All the inmates are dressed in identical khaki shirts and pants. A few women sit one-on-one with their husbands or boyfriends; others are surrounded by small groups of friends or family. In the far corner, a pimply but pretty inmate holds a sleeping toddler and talks to an older woman visitor while picking at a bag of nacho-flavor Doritos. Crossing the room to an empty chair, I suddenly feel self-conscious of my gallon-size bag of coins. Beth had told me to bring plenty of change to buy snacks from the overpriced vending machines, so I dutifully went to the local bank branch office and asked the bored-looking teller for a hundred dollars in quarters. I had no idea just how heavy that much change would be. Here, inside the walls of the Alderson visitors’ building, I feel like I’m flaunting my wealth in twenty-five-cent increments.
