Darling Rose Gold(2)
I glare at the radio. The chair swivels toward me, and I realize I know the clerk sitting in it. I privately refer to the bald and brawny man as Mr. Clean. I met him five years ago. He flirted with me all day, asking what perfume I was wearing while I batted him away. I’d feigned breeziness, but internally I was seesawing between fury at the injustice of my verdict and fear of the next five years. I hadn’t seen him again until now.
“Patty Watts?” he says, turning off the radio.
I nod.
“I remember you.” He smiles.
Mr. Clean pulls a form from his desk drawer, then disappears into the storage room. After a few minutes, he comes back with a small cardboard box. He hands me a piece of paper. “I need you to look through the inventory list and sign at the bottom to confirm you’re leaving with everything you brought here.”
I open the box and glance through it before scribbling my signature.
“You can change back into your street clothes now,” Mr. Clean says, gesturing to the bathroom and winking at me when Connolly isn’t looking. I tip my head and shuffle away, clutching the cardboard box.
In a stall, I rip off the jacket with DEPT. OF CORRECTIONS emblazoned across its back and dig into the box. After five years of prison food, my favorite pair of jeans, with the forgiving elastic in the waistband, is a little loose. I put on my Garfield T-shirt and a red sweatshirt embroidered with the initials of my community college, GCC. My old socks are stiff with sweat, but they’re still better than the rough wool pair I’ve been wearing. I pull on my white gym shoes and notice a final item at the bottom of the box. I pick up the heart-shaped locket and think about putting it in my pocket, but instead clasp it around my neck. Better for her to see me wearing her childhood gift.
I leave the bathroom and hand the empty box back to Mr. Clean.
“You take care of yourself.” He winks again.
Connolly and I walk down the fluorescent-lit hallway of the admissions building toward the parking lot. “Someone coming to pick you up, Watts?”
“Yes, sir. My ride should be here soon.” I’m careful not to say who my ride is; though Rose Gold is twenty-three now, some people still imagine her as a sickly little girl. Some people would not be overjoyed to see us reunited. They don’t care that I stayed up all night monitoring her vitals during every hospital stay. They don’t know the depths of this mother’s love.
We stop at the door. My fingertips tingle as they reach for the push bar.
Connolly scratches his Ditka-esque mustache. “That pierogi recipe was a real hit with my in-laws.”
I clap my hands. “I told you it would be.”
Connolly hesitates. “Martha was impressed. She didn’t sleep on the couch last night.”
“Baby steps, sir. She’s coming around. Keep reading that book.” I’ve been coaching the warden on The Five Love Languages for the past few months.
Connolly smiles and looks lost for a second.
“Now, don’t get all emotional,” I joke, slapping his shoulder.
He nods. “Good luck out there, Patty. Let’s not meet again, okay?”
“That’s the plan,” I say. I watch him stride away, his clown-sized shoes smacking against the linoleum. He hefts his bulk into an office and closes the door behind him, and then there’s nothing left to face but a spooky silence. Just like that, the Illinois Department of Corrections is finished with me.
I try to ignore the wild thumping in my chest. Pushing the door open, I walk outside into blinding sunlight, half expecting an alarm to sound or a red light to flash. But it really is that easy: enter a building, leave a building, no one minds. I can go to a movie or church or the circus. I could get stuck in a thunderstorm without an umbrella or mugged at gunpoint. I am free, and anything can happen to me. I stretch out my fingers and marvel at the breeze on this crisp November day. Shielding my eyes, I scan the parking lot for the old Chevy van. But it’s a sea of sedans. No people.
She should be here any minute now.
I sit on the flimsy bench, scowling as the plastic protests under my weight. After several minutes of struggling to get comfortable, I stand. Back to pacing.
In the distance, my maroon van turns onto the long single-lane road that leads to the admissions building. As it creeps closer, I do my best to flatten any frizzies and straighten my sweatshirt. I clear my throat like I’m about to speak, but all I do is stare. By the time the van reaches the parking lot, I can make out my little girl’s narrow shoulders and blond-brown hair.
I watch Rose Gold back into a parking spot. She turns off the engine and leans against the headrest. I picture her closing her eyes for a minute. The ends of her chest-length hair rise and fall with every unsuspecting breath. Rose Gold has wanted long hair since she was a little girl, and now she has it.
I read somewhere the average person has a hundred thousand hairs on their head—more for blonds, fewer for redheads. I wonder how many strands it takes to fill a fist. I imagine pulling my daughter in for a warm embrace, twirling her locks through my fingers. I always told her she was better off with her head shaved. You’re much less vulnerable that way—nothing to grab hold of.
Daughters never listen to their mothers.
When she lifts her head, her eyes meet mine. She raises her arm and waves like the homecoming queen on a parade float. My own arm glides into the air and mirrors her excitement. I spot the outlines of a car seat in the van’s second row. My grandson must be buckled in back there.