The Row(3)

That’s all we do in my family. Wait.

My nerves get the better of me in the silence. They’re like red ants swarming, creeping in droves under my skin. I can almost feel their tiny feet crawling, but I can’t stop them. I cringe, knowing I’m helpless to prevent the stings from coming at any moment.

I rub my hands along my arms, trying to force away the thoughts, the sensation. Wishing I had something—anything—to do. Then I stop and head toward the stairs.

Right now, I can think of one thing I don’t have to wait for.

The moment I get to my room, I grab the three remaining unread letters from this week’s stack, slip out the one marked May 31, and flop on my bed as I lift the flap. Daddy never bothers to seal these. We learned a long time ago that the guards would open and read every letter he sends home with us anyway, so he doesn’t try to prevent it. Pulling the paper out, I hold it carefully as I read.

Riley,

Happy Tuesday, sweetheart! Hope you’re having a good day. I can’t believe how fast time seems to move these days. It’s always so good to see you. I can’t believe you’ll be eighteen soon. It feels wrong that my own daughter is growing up so much without me. Every time I see you, it seems you look older. Don’t grow up too fast, Ri. I’m still holding out hope that I might somehow find a way to be back at home with you before you move out and on with your own life.

All my love,

Daddy

I read it again, smiling to myself as I remember my last visit. Our chess match this week had been very close. I’d nearly won—something I hadn’t done since I turned nine and realized he was letting me win. I had demanded that he start playing for real, and he’d dominated me ever since.

But I’m learning. I’m getting better with every match and he knows it.

I walk over to my closet. The bottom is filled with neatly stacked shoeboxes. The older letters are packed up and moved into the attic on a regular basis to make room for new ones. I’ve never tried to count how many boxes I’ve piled up over the years, but there are twenty-two in my closet right now. The one on top is the only one not held closed with a large rubber band. I slip the newest letter into it and caress the tops of a few envelopes before putting the lid back on and replacing the box. Mama helped me set up this system way back when Daddy was still on trial. He’d started sending home letters every time we visited him—one letter for every day of the week except visitation day.

Mama and I both expected him to stop or slow down at some point, but he never did. The shoebox stacks are reaching the point where they’re starting to interfere with my hanging clothes again. Knowing I’ll have to move some boxes up to the attic soon forms a ball of sadness in the bottom of my stomach.

I always dread doing that. The boxes hold pieces of Daddy—and Polunsky has already stolen so much of him away. I like keeping the letters close. I wish I could fill my whole room with them, but Mama won’t let me.

I used to think Mama might be jealous that he doesn’t send her a letter for every day of the week, but I don’t dare ask in case it might hurt her to talk about that. I know she misses him as much as I do, and we’ve all had enough pain.

A bang shatters my thoughts as I hear the door downstairs close and then Mama’s voice. “Riley, are you home?”

“Yep!” I respond as I close my closet.

“Can you come help with groceries, please?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I murmur as I head for the stairs. I leave my thoughts where I wish I could stay, locked up tight in the closet full of Daddy’s letters.

*

Mama nudges my hands with a bowl of spaghetti until I blink and take it. When I look up at her, it’s clear she’s been speaking and I haven’t been paying attention.

“Sorry,” I say, as I carry the bowl to the table and grab the glasses to fill with milk.

“Your mind sure is busy.” She waits until I meet her worried eyes before continuing. “Was your day okay?”

“Yeah, it was fine.”

“Are you bored? Are you sure quitting your job was the best plan?” Her voice holds a tone that clearly says she thinks I should’ve stayed, but we’ve been over that already.

I level my gaze at her. “I’m sure that working in a place like that wasn’t worth the money.”

She watches me. I turn and pour the second glass of milk before she speaks again. “I know it was hard—”

“It wasn’t hard, Mama.” I put the glass down on the table with a loud clink and barely notice when a splash of milk sloshes over the top. “The second Carly found out about Daddy, she told everyone. They all started avoiding me, and then someone left those threats in my cubby and on my car.”

“This isn’t the first time we’ve seen struggle, Riley.” Mama wipes up the mess with a napkin and shakes her head.

“They said I should die like the girls in Daddy’s case.” The words spill out like the milk before I can stop them.

Mama gives me a sharp glance and I shut my mouth, fuming silently and fighting to calm down. It’s hard enough to cope with our situation, but the worst part is when she speaks to me like I’m not strong. When she implies that I’m weak after I spend every day fighting to prove to myself and everyone else that I’m tough enough to face my situation, my life. The pain of her doubting me hurts worse than it would from anyone else.