They Wish They Were Us(54)
Gravel and salt crunch under the tires and about a half mile down the road, we approach a chain-link fence. It opens as if operated by a phantom guard and I scoot forward, craning to see what’s ahead. When we emerge from another narrow path, there sits a concrete expanse the size of a football field, marked neatly by white-painted lines. The lot is nearly full with BMWs, Mercedes, and Audis. Helpful, clear markers hang overhead.
VISITORS LOUNGE THIS WAY, one reads in navy block lettering with an arrow underneath. PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE, another one says in cursive scrawl.
“Knock, knock! Need a hand?” A middle-aged woman with saggy cheeks and graying hair appears, standing just outside my window in an all-khaki snowsuit and an eager grin. Her name badge says VERONICA, VISITOR HOST.
I look to Rachel but she’s already out of the car, coming around my side. “Hi, V.”
“Oh, it’s you, dear! Nice to see you.”
“You too.” Rachel rubs her gloved hands together and motions to me through the door. “C’mon.”
The air is sharp and icy. It burns my throat. I wonder what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
“This is Jill,” Rachel says when I step down from the passenger side. “She’s a frie—” but she stops herself and redirects. “She knew Graham.”
Veronica nods, showing no emotion, no sign of recognition. “Welcome to Danbury, then,” she says. “Follow me.”
We do, but I can barely keep up, shuffling my feet forward to try to catch Rachel. I should have asked her more about this place, about what Graham has been doing for the past three years. But instead I’m totally oblivious to everything around us. Veronica pulls open a metal door and leads us down a wide hallway decorated with collaged dream boards and ink drawings until we come to a pair of French doors and a brightly lit cube that looks more like a doctor’s waiting room than the jails I’ve seen on TV.
“Come right this way. You’ll need to fill out some forms as a first-time guest.” She click-clacks on the keyboard and a ream of paper flies from the printer. “Here’s a pen, sweetie.”
Rachel raps her knuckles against the Formica countertop and taps her foot impatiently on the floor. I speed up my work, checking boxes until I reach the final page, where I scribble my name.
“Done,” I say.
“Finally,” Rachel mumbles. But when I throw her a look, she immediately mouths “Sorry.” I guess I can’t blame her for being anxious, for wanting to see Graham as quickly as possible. I’d be the same way with Jared.
A big, burly man in purple scrubs motions for us to follow him, and the next hallway is just as strange, cold and lined with tile, like a school. More hand-drawn artwork hangs on the walls.
When we reach another door, metal and massive, the guy stops and turns to us. “Rachel, you know the rules, but just a reminder, you can only stay an hour. No touching. Be positive.”
“Thanks, TJ,” Rachel says. “Go time?” She looks at me now.
I swallow the lump in my throat and break my fingers apart. I hadn’t realized they were clasped together.
TJ pushes open the door to what looks like a cafeteria and makes a sweeping motion with his hand like he’s a butler or a waiter at a fancy restaurant. My stomach does cartwheels and I scan the room frantically. I spot him before he sees me.
There, just across the room. Graham.
It’s almost too much to bear. But I make myself look, to take him in from afar. He’s dressed in light green scrubs, not handcuffed like I expected. He runs his fingers through his hair, a nervous tic that gives me déjà vu. He used to do that before major tests or Player pops. His chin has a faint sheen of stubble, making him look so much older than I remember, so much older than I feel right now. He stoops a bit, though it looks like he’s grown at least a few inches taller. He’s thin, too. Almost skinny, with sharper angles and darker shadows.
His head turns toward us slowly and his eyes meet mine. They widen as we register each other for the first time in nearly three years. Rachel is already by his side and I force myself to walk, to close the gap between us.
“Hi,” he says. It’s a mixture of shock and excitement. Curiosity, maybe.
“Hi.”
Graham drops to a seat at a small circular table and I follow suit, mirroring his movements.
He throws me a sheepish smile, as if we haven’t known each other since before puberty. As if I don’t know all of his secrets.
“Um, how are you?” I ask because I don’t know what else to say.
At first the words are sparse and he stumbles, as if he’s trying to remember how people are supposed to converse or make small talk. He chats about the weather and points out other people around the room, kids about our age, talking to older folks who look like their parents or siblings. He motions to an Asian American boy who sits in silence as his mom plays a recording off an iPhone. “That’s from his brother,” Graham says. “He refuses to come visit, but Andy misses him so much.” Rachel nods and purses her lips.
He doesn’t say where these people came from or what they did to get here. He rambles on about the food, and how chicken tikka masala night is his favorite, but he used to look forward to spaghetti Bolognese night. He mentions how he’s learned to play cricket from some of the British counselors in his “cohort,” and that he’s taken an interest in architecture. “I’ve read just about everything we have about Norman Foster and Zaha Hadid. I can’t wait to visit the bridge she built in Abu Dhabi—it’s, like, legendary,” he says.