Somewhere Out There(17)

The only relief I found was in the blissful, dark comfort of sleep. I fought waking as best I could, closing my eyes and attempting to force myself back into an unconscious world. A world where I wasn’t in jail, where I hadn’t just given up my children. Hours went by, then days. I didn’t shower, I didn’t eat. I used the bathroom only when I absolutely had to. The correctional officers on each shift tried to talk to me, tried to make me rise from my bed, but I swatted them away. “Please,” I croaked. “Just leave me alone.”

I wasn’t sure how, but word of what I’d gone through made its way around to the other inmates, and I started to feel the occasional pat on my back, to hear a soft voice saying, “It’s okay, girl. You did the right thing.” The compassion in their voices only brought up a fresh round of tears, the desire to spiral deeper into despair.

“You need to get up,” one of them said. She sat on the edge of my bunk, the weight of her causing me to roll over. “You need to eat.”

“No,” I said, opening my eyes just enough to see the woman trying to rouse me. She was tall and thin, with braided blond hair and ice-blue eyes. Her long, bony fingers squeezed my arm.

“You think you’re the only one in here with a sad situation?” she said. “Please, mama. I know you feel like shit, but you need to get up.”

“I can’t,” I whispered. The marrow in my bones felt as though it had hardened into lead, pinning me to my thin mattress. I tried to move away from her, but she pulled me over onto my back, forcing me to meet her steely gaze. Her skin was almost translucent; I could see the thin blue rivers of veins in her long neck.

“Yeah,” she said, “you can.” She sighed. “You want your girls finding out you let yourself die? That the story you want to give them to carry around the rest of their lives?”

Her words tore through me like a knife. I hadn’t thought past the moment I was in, the sharply barbed agony I felt. I hadn’t considered the possibility that someday, wherever they might end up, my girls might want to find out what happened to me.

“Come on,” she said. “You can do this.”

And so I let her put an arm around my shoulders, helping me to sit up. My head spun, and I had to close my eyes again so I wouldn’t pass out. My tongue was dry as sand; it stuck like Velcro to the roof of my mouth. She handed me a Dixie cup full of water and told me to drink. After I complied, I looked at her again. “Thanks,” I said.

“No problem.” She smiled, revealing horribly crooked, crowded teeth. “I’m Peters.”

“Walker,” I said. I’d made the mistake of introducing myself as Jennifer the first night I was here, only to learn that inmates all called each other by their last names. Now, I swallowed the rest of the water in the cup and felt the shrunken, dried-out cells of my body beg for more.

“What they get you for?”

“Petty theft,” I said, and then had to steady my voice before going on. “Child endangerment and neglect.” I dropped my eyes to the cement floor. “What about you?”

“Armed robbery.” She paused. “How long did you get?”

“Fifteen months,” I said.

“Headed to Skagit after this?”

I nodded. My public defender had explained that I’d stay in county lockup until a bunk opened up at the minimum-security women’s correctional facility in Mt. Vernon. With good behavior, he told me, I could be out in less than a year. Out to do what? I wondered. Beg for enough money to survive?

“Me, too,” she said. “Seven years.”

“Sorry,” I said, fiddling with the hem of my bright orange shirt.

“Don’t be,” Peters said. “Ain’t nobody’s fault but my own. And the worthless * boyfriend who talked me into it.” She stood, and then helped me get to my feet, too. “Here,” she said, handing me a granola bar. “Eat this, then hit the shower. No offense, but you don’t smell too good.”

“Sorry,” I said again.

“Stop apologizing. Jesus.”

“Okay.” Still feeling numb, I unwrapped the granola bar and forced myself to take a bite. It felt like dirt in my mouth, but I managed to swallow it, then finished the entire thing. My stomach rumbled in appreciation. Peters reached under my bunk and handed me a thin, white terry-cloth towel and a flimsy plastic comb.

“Good luck getting through that black rat’s nest with this,” she said. I lifted my hand to touch my hair, only to discover she was right—after days on my pillow, my curls had matted into a dreadlocked mess. Brooke’s hair had often ended up like this when we slept in the car; it took half a bottle of detangler and over an hour with a wide-toothed comb to smooth it again. I’d tell her stories and sing her songs to distract her from the yanking at her scalp, and now, the thought of holding her so close made me want to climb right back into bed.

Peters spoke again. “I’ll see if I can find you some conditioner.”

“Thanks,” I said, pushing down the urge I felt to collapse.

“You’re welcome. Now do us all a favor and go wash off that stink.”

As weak as I was, I managed to shuffle to the bathroom, unsure if once I was there, I’d have the energy or inclination to get myself clean. I supposed that I could. I could do it like I’d have to do everything from now on—forcing each movement, each breath into my lungs. Putting one foot in front of the other until someday, I’d find a way to be far, far away from this pain.