The Inmate (5)

“You will,” I insist. “I promise.”

The problem with your kid getting older is they know there are some things you can’t promise.

Josh doesn’t look up from the little pile of salt and pepper. This time he writes an S in it for his last name. “Mom?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Now that we’re living here, am I going to meet my dad?”

I almost choke on my own saliva. Wow, I did not know that thought was going through his head. As much as I have tried my best to be two parents for this kid, there have been times in Josh’s life when he has seemed obsessed with who his father is. When he was five, I couldn’t get him to stop talking about it. Every day he would come home with a new drawing of his father and what he imagined that father would look like. An astronaut. A police officer. A veterinarian. But he hasn’t mentioned his father in a while.

“Josh,” I begin.

“Because he lives here?” He raises his eyes from the table. “Right?”

Every word is like a little tiny dagger in my heart. I should’ve just told him that his father was dead. That would’ve made things so much easier. I could have made up some wonderful story about how his father was a hero who died, I don’t know, trying to save a puppy from a fire. He would’ve been happy with that. Maybe if I told him the puppy fire story, the kids wouldn’t have bullied him last year.

“Honey,” I say, “your dad used to live here, but now he doesn’t. Not anymore.”

I can’t quite read the expression on Josh’s face. The other problem with your kid getting older is that they can tell when you’re lying.





Chapter 3




The man in front of me has exactly one tooth.

Okay, that’s not entirely true. Mr. Henderson has a couple of teeth in the back that are black and in need of serious dental care, but when he smiles, all I can see is that one yellow tooth on the top row of his mouth.

“You’re a lifesaver, Doc,” Mr. Henderson tells me as he flashes ol’ Chomper at me one more time. I’ve told him twice now that I’m not a doctor, but he seems to like to call me that. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

“Happy to help,” I say.

I have done practically nothing for Mr. Henderson. All I have done is give him a prescription for a new inhaler for his emphysema, which seems to have worsened in the last few months. The prisoners have to fill out a kite form, which is a requisition to come see me if it’s not a regularly scheduled visit, and the form Mr. Henderson filled out just says, “Can’t breathe.”

All the patients I have seen on my first day have been like this. I don’t know what these men did to end up in the maximum-security prison, but they are all so incredibly polite and grateful for the care I provide. I don’t know what terrible crime this sixty-three-year-old man committed, and I don’t want to know. Right now, I like the guy.

“I’ve been coughing and wheezing ever since the other girl left,” Mr. Henderson tells me. As if to demonstrate his point, Mr. Henderson gives a loud, wet, hacking cough. I’d love to get a chest x-ray, but the technician isn’t here today, so it will have to wait until tomorrow.

The staffing here is terrible. One day into the job, and that much is painfully obvious. Before I came aboard, Dr. Wittenburg was stopping by occasionally, and other than that, they were sending inmates to the ER or urgent care for basic medical care—at enormous cost to the prison. No wonder they seemed so desperate to hire me.

Desperate enough to overlook my intimate connection to one of the inmates.

“What about Dorothy?” I ask. “Did you tell her about your breathing problems?”

He waves a hand. “She just says stop being such a baby.”

While the men are polite enough, I’ve heard my fair share of whining about Dorothy today. None of them seem to like her much.

“You’re great though, Doc,” Mr. Henderson says.

“Thank you.” I smile at him. “Do you have any other questions or concerns?”

“Yeah, I got a question.” He scratches at the rat’s nest of gray hair on his head. “Are you married?”

Dorothy’s warning about not giving out personal information to any of the patients is still ringing in my ears. But this seems like a rather harmless question. And he can clearly see that I’m not wearing a wedding band.

“No,” I say. “Not married.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll find somebody soon, Doc,” he says. “You’re real young and pretty. You don’t need to worry.”

Great.

Mr. Henderson hops off the examining table and I lead him out of the room, making a few last-minute quick notes on his paper chart. The documentation requirements here are pretty limited, from what I’ve seen. The last nurse practitioner, Elise, just made a few notes in her large loopy handwriting for each of her visits. Whatever else Elise is guilty of, I’m grateful she had good handwriting.

Correctional officer Marcus Hunt is waiting outside the exam room. Hunt is the officer assigned to the medical unit, which means he brings the patients to the waiting area (i.e., the plastic chairs lined up outside the examining room), and he stands at attention right outside the room while I’m with the patients.