Missing Dixie(46)

My eyes drop to the swollen, bruised, and scabbed-over knuckles on my right hand.

“Still attached.”

Dallas frowns. “I’m serious, man. Between worrying about whether or not Dixie’s going to bail because of your bullshit or if your hand is going to be functioning by Friday night, I am stressed the f*ck out.”

All I can do is give him the “sorry I’m such a major f*ckup” look that I have to give a lot of people that I disappoint.

The officer standing behind me gives the two-minute warning.

Dallas appears to be doing a sort of deep-breathing thing Robyn probably makes him do.

“You okay, man?”

“Yeah, just trying to get centered,” he tells me.

“Centered, huh? How’s that working out for you?”

He smirks. “Scale of one to ten, how centered do I seem?” He rakes his free hand through his hair and my honest answer is negative fifteen.

“Five. Give or take a few.”

Dallas shakes his head. “Sometimes I think I should just call Robyn’s uncle and see if he needs me to play backup guitar for his Elvis act.”

I open my mouth to make a joke, but then I remember something important—something that kept me awake all night other than the sweat-and urine-scented mattress I had to try to sleep on in a six-by-eight cell.

“Wait,” I say when the officer taps me on the shoulder, meaning I have thirty seconds left. “I need you to do something for me,” I say to Dallas.

“I know, man. We’ll be back in a few short hours to pick you up. Your attorney said it could be as early as six or as late as eight thirty.”

I want to laugh at Dallas because, God love him, I’m not scheduling a f*cking manscaping appointment. I’m in jail. They can let me out—or not—whenever they feel like it.

“Right. No rush because paperwork and all that takes a while. But that’s not what I need. I need you to tell Dixie to call Sheila Montgomery at Child Protective Services. Sheila can make sure Liam doesn’t have to go back to his abusive father even once he’s out of the hospital.”

Dallas whips out his pen and the small notebook he keeps in his back pocket for song lyrics. “Shee-La Mont-gum-er-ee,” he says as he writes each syllable. “Got it. Anything else? Need one of those prepaid cards for food or money for vending machines or—”

“Time’s up,” the officer behind me announces and there’s a click. I shake my head to his last question. I can’t hear the rest of what he’s saying but he shows me the notebook where he wrote the social worker’s name and I feel a few ounces of relief.

At least maybe that kid can get the kind of help I never could. Maybe someone will stand a chance of being better than what I’ve become.

“Garrison, you’re up,” a booming voice calls, sending my name ricocheting off the cell walls.

I fell asleep sitting up on the bed because I couldn’t bring myself to lie on it.

Having grown up with a junkie for a mother, I can handle going without food. I didn’t touch anything that was served through the slot in the cell door because I know a few guys who work at this particular establishment and they’ve told me some disgusting shit that has been done to food. But I cannot handle the feel of filth. I grew up in it and I hate it. I need a shower more than I need air right now. I also want to shave my face before I see Dixie but I know she’s going to be out there as well as I know my own name.

I shuffle in line with the other guys heading to where we pick up the meager personal belongings we came with. I give my name and Social Security number to an African-American female officer who looks tired as she practically tosses a large Ziploc bag at me. Next is the paperwork part and I have to sign that, yes, I will appear in court on the determined date that will be sent to me by mail, and yes, I understand the conditions of my release.

Next is the bathroom, where I toss this ugly orange jumpsuit into the designated bin and put back on clothes that are partially covered in dried blood. Most of which isn’t mine.

Great.

Filthy and blood-covered. Nothing says working on reformation and redemption like that particular combination. Naturally it would be my “Drummers Hit It Harder” T-shirt that I happened to be wearing when I nearly beat a man to death.

Basically I am karma’s bitch right now.

Once I’ve changed, I wash my hands, splash some water on my face, and tuck my wallet into the back pocket of my jeans along with my folded-up pink and yellow release papers and dead-as-hell cell phone.

I exit the bathroom and show my ID at the final desk.

Walking out in the dingy gray waiting area would be a relief if she weren’t standing there looking so delectable as she argues with the officer at the front desk.

“It’s after ten. His attorney said eight thirty at the—”

Dixie stops midsentence when she sees me.

“Hey. There he is,” Dallas calls out. He stands and strides over to me looking as worn down as I feel.

“Barely,” I answer honestly.

Dixie hangs back but I can see every emotion she feels playing on a steady loop in her eyes.

Happiness. Concern. Longing. Confusion. Doubt. And the worst one of all.

Fear.

I don’t know if she’s afraid for me or afraid of me.

I can’t stand the thought of it being that second one.