Читать книгу These Things Hidden - Heather Gudenkauf, Heather Gudenkauf - Страница 16

I look down at the baby doll, its lifeless eyes looking up at me, and I feel weak. It’s been five years and one month and twenty-six days. She would have been five years or sixty-one months or 269 weeks or 1,883 days or 45,192 hours or 2,711,520 minutes or 162,691,200 seconds old. I’ve been keeping count.

Many of the women at Cravenville had children. Some even gave birth to their babies behind bars. I used to run circle after circle around the prison courtyard, my tennis shoes pounding against the cement, the air heavy in my lungs. “Where you running to, Baby Killer? You running from yourself?” I would hear this from a corner of the yard and then a cackle of laughter. I ignored them. When they weren’t calling me baby killer or bitch or worse, they didn’t talk to me at all. They looked through me as if I was just a part of the putrid air on our cell block. Those were women who themselves were killers; they murdered their husbands or stabbed their boyfriends or shot a clerk in a robbery. But I’m worse. A helpless baby, a few minutes old, was tossed into the river to be swept away with the current, to be battered against the bank.

The women at Gertrude House are no different than the women at Cravenville. I have never felt more alone than I do right now. I know how hard it has been for my parents to witness how far I’ve fallen. But all I want is for them to come and see me. It’s been so long since I’ve held my mother’s hand, felt my father’s touch. Heard my sister’s giggle. We were never a touchy-feely family, but sometimes, when I hold very still, I can recall the weight of my father’s large, capable hand resting on my head. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can imagine that things are like they were before everything went wrong. I can imagine that I am back in high school, running on the track and trying to beat my best time, sitting in my room doing my calculus homework, helping my mom with dinner, talking with my sister.

I had a plan. I would ace my college entrance exams, play volleyball for the University of Iowa or Penn State, major in prelaw, go to law school. I had my future all mapped out. Now it’s gone. It’s over. All because of a boy and a pregnancy.

I was in the hospital, hooked up to an IV, when I first met Devin. She told me I was going to be charged with first-degree murder and child endangerment. “Did you think the baby was dead before she went into the river?” she asked me at that first meeting. I shrugged my shoulders and didn’t answer.

“Did you think she was dead?” she asked again, pacing back and forth in front of me. She was relentless. All I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and die and she kept trying to reexamine everything that had happened.

“Sure,” I finally said. “Sure, I thought it was dead.”

She spun on her heel. “Never call her an it. Do you understand?” she said severely. “You call her the baby or she or her, but never it. Got it?”

I nodded. “I really thought the baby was dead already,” I said, wanting to believe it, but knowing nothing I said was the truth. The medical examiner had already proved I was wrong.

Eventually, Devin had me plead guilty to involuntary manslaughter, a class “D” felony that carried a five-year sentence, and child endangerment, a class “B” felony that meant I could be confined for more than fifty years, although Devin assured me that there was no way I would serve that kind of time. I didn’t have to take the stand in my own defense. It never got that far. I’ve never told anyone what happened that night, and no one seems very interested in hearing the exact details. I think I remind everyone of someone they could know. A sister, a daughter, a grandchild. Maybe even themselves. Everyone knows the basics of what I did. That’s enough for them. Devin was right. I ended up being sentenced to ten years at Cravenville. As horrible as that sounded at the time, it was much better than the fifty-five years I could have faced. I asked Devin why it was such a short sentence.

“There are many factors,” Devin explained. “Prison overcrowding, the circumstances of the crime. Ten years is a bargain, Allison.”

Then, a month ago, Devin came to see me at the prison. I was running around the courtyard, the July heat radiating off the concrete. I could feel the warmth seeping into my tennis shoes and through my socks. Breathing heavily, I watched as Devin walked quickly over to me, dressed in the gray suit she wore like a uniform and high heels. I’ve never worn a pair of high heels, never went to a school dance, never went to the prom. “Allison, good news,” she told me by way of greeting. “The parole board is going to review your case. You’ll go before the board next week for an interview.”

“Parole?” I asked dumbfounded. “It’s only been five years, though.” I hadn’t dared to think about getting out earlier.

“With your good behavior and all the steps you’ve taken to improve yourself, you qualify for a parole hearing. Isn’t that great news?” she asked, looking questioningly at my worried face.

“It is good news,” I told her, mostly because it was what she wanted to hear. How could I explain to her that after getting used to the confinement, the horrible food, the brutality of prison, after coming to terms with how and why I got here in the first place, I actually found comfort there. For once in my life I didn’t need to be perfect. I didn’t need to plan for my future. It was all laid out for me in prison. Ten long years of just being.

“We need to sit down and talk about the kinds of things the members of the parole board will most likely ask you. The most important thing for you to do is to express remorse for what happened.”

“Remorse?” I asked.

“Remorse, regret,” Devin said tersely. “It’s crucial for you to say you’re sorry for what you did. If you don’t do that, there is no way they are going to grant you parole. Can you do that? Can you say you’re sorry you threw your newborn baby in a creek?” she asked me. “You are sorry, right?”

“Yes,” I finally said. “I can say I’m sorry.” And I did. I sat in front of the parole board as they reviewed my file. They complimented me on my good behavior while I was incarcerated, my work in the prison cafeteria, the fact that I earned my high school diploma and credits toward a college degree. They looked expectantly at me and waited. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry I hurt my baby and I’m sorry she died. It was a mistake. A terrible mistake and I wish I could take it all back.”

My parents didn’t attend the hearing, and I worried their absence would make the parole board think that if my own parents wouldn’t even come to support me, there was no way they could recommend my release. But Devin told me not to worry; my grandmother was at the hearing and my chances of early release were excellent. “It’s all about what you’ve done to make things right while you were in prison. How you’ve tried to better yourself.” Devin was right. She always is. The parole board voted unanimously to release me.

I meet my roommate, Bea, a recovering heroin addict, at dinner. There are only five of us at the table. The rest of the residents are working or at approved activities. I want to know about the different jobs the women have gotten—I want so badly to start earning some money of my own—but I’m hesitant to ask or even speak. Everyone looks at me like I have the plague or something. Except for Bea, that is. She doesn’t seem to be bothered by my history. Either that or she hasn’t heard the sordid details yet. Bea has the thin, pocked face of an addict and hard black eyes that look like they’ve seen hell or worse. She also has thin strong arms that look like they could knock the crap out of any one of us, so everyone seems to give Bea her space. Not that violence of any sort is allowed at Gertrude House. Bea gleefully tells everyone about her first night at Gertrude House, anyway.

“Two ladies got in an argument over who got to use the phone next. There’s a sign-up sheet for a reason. This woman who had been in jail for embezzlement smacked the other gal across the face with the phone.” Bea laughs at the memory. “Blood and teeth flew everywhere. Remember that, Olene?” Bea asks as she stabs a green bean with her fork.

“I do,” Olene says wryly. “Not one of our finer moments here. We had to call the police.”

“Yeah, and because I was new to the house, I had to clean up all the blood and teeth.” Bea shivers at the memory.

“Oh, Bea,” Olene chides her gently. “I helped you.”

After dinner and helping with the dishes, I try to call my parents and then Brynn again. No one answers. I sit numbly on the sofa, the telephone in my hand, listening to the dial tone until Olene comes into the room, pulls the telephone gently from my hand and tells me I’m on my own until seven, when we meet as a group. I’m not surprised when I go up to my room and find another battered doll, headfirst in a tin bucket of water, there to greet me. I swallow hard and a solid knot of rage forms in my chest. How dare these women who themselves have done terrible, terrible things judge me? With a kick perfected my during my second year at soccer camp, my foot connects with the bucket, sending it clanking across the hardwood floor, water splashing and spreading in a puddle at my feet. I hear feet on the steps and snickers coming from the hallway and I turn swiftly and slam the bedroom door, the walls trembling with the force and echoing through the house.

After a few minutes there’s a knock at the door. “Go away,” I say angrily.

“Allison?” It’s Olene. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I just want to be left alone,” I say more softly.

“Can I come in for a minute?” Olene asks. I want to say no, I want to climb out the window and run away, but I can’t go home and I can’t leave the area. “Allison, open the door, please.”

I crack open the bedroom door and I see Olene’s green eye looking in at me.

“I’m fine,” I say again, but the water from the bucket is pooling around my feet and inching into the hallway. Olene waits, not saying anything, just looking up at me with her knowing eyes until I step aside to let her in.

Olene takes in the overturned bucket, the doll, the lake of water and sighs. “I’m sorry about this, Allison,” Olene says. “You just have to let them get it out of their system. Lay low, do your work and then they’ll treat you like everyone else.” She must see the sadness on my face because she asks, “Do you want me to bring it up at our group meeting tonight?”

“No,” I say firmly. I get that no good will come from confronting these women.

“I’ll go get you a towel.” Olene pats me on the arm and leaves me to my thoughts. I plan to keep my head down, check in with my parole officer twice a month, do my work and mind my own business, but I know they aren’t going to let me off so easily. I know they hate me for my crime. They think they’re better than me. They think they have perfectly reasonable excuses for doing the bad things they did. The drugs made them do it, their boyfriends made them do it, their rotten childhoods made them do it. But me? I had the perfect parents, the perfect childhood, the perfect life. I have no excuses. Olene returns and hands me a stack of towels. “Want some help?”

I shake my head. “No, thanks. I’ve got it.” She comes into the room, anyway, and picks up the bucket and the doll, then closes the door gently behind her. I wipe up the water from the floor and lie down on the lower bunk bed and try to close my eyes, but each time I blink I see only the dull, dead eyes of the doll behind my own.

When I think back to that night, I remember that the baby didn’t cry like you see in the movies and on television. First, there’s the mother, gritting her teeth and groaning, bearing down for the long push, and then the baby appears and greets the world with a wail, as if angry at being brought from her warm, dim aquarium into the bright, cold world. That cry never came.

I could see the terror in Brynn’s eyes as she offered the baby to me. I told her no. I didn’t want to touch her. So with shaking hands, Brynn cut the umbilical cord and laid her gently in a little bundle on the floor in a corner of the room. “You need a doctor, Allison,” she told me, her voice cracking with concern as she brushed my sweaty hair from my forehead. I was unbelievably cold, shivering so hard that my teeth clanked together. Brynn glanced over at the still, silent baby. “We need to call someone….”

“No, no,” I chattered, trying to cover my legs, now conscious of my nakedness. I tried to control my mouth, forcing the words to come out smoothly, forcefully. If they didn’t, I knew that Brynn would fall apart. “No. We’re not going to tell anyone. No one needs to know now.” I knew I sounded cold, cruel even. But, like I said, I had a plan: valedictorian, volleyball scholarship, college, law school. Christopher was a mistake, the pregnancy an even bigger one. I just needed Brynn to keep a cool head, to go along with me.

“Oh, Alli,” Brynn said, her chin trembling, tears running down her face. Barely keeping it together. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she told me, arranging the covers around me carefully. “I’m going to throw away these sheets.” I wanted to sleep, so badly. I wanted to close my eyes and just disappear.

I used my arms to push myself up from the damp bed and slowly swung my legs over the edge of the bed, nearly crying out from the burning pain between my legs. I waited until the sting dulled into a throb and stood, reaching for my bedside table for support. I looked over to the far corner of the room where Brynn had left the baby. I can do this, I told myself. I have to do this.

As I steadied myself, I looked down and saw the rust-colored stains on my thighs. Brynn had tried to clean me up as best as she could, but blood was still dribbling down my legs and I moaned. There was so much blood. In the corner I saw the bundle of towels that Brynn had wrapped the baby in. It seemed so far away. I needed to get dressed and get things cleaned up. It would be dark soon, and there was always the chance that my parents would come home early. I had to make a decision. Through the sound of rain pounding on the roof I thought I heard Brynn downstairs and the slam of a screen door. I knew what I needed to do, where I needed to take her. It would be like she was never even here, like she never existed. After, I would rush to finish cleaning up my bedroom and I would pretend that I had the flu for the next few days. Then everything would go back to normal. It would have to.

But it never seems to actually be finished, this thing. It has attached itself to me and to Brynn and even to my parents like some kind of malignant tumor, and we will never be free of it. I begin to cry. I’ve done everything right my entire life and then I made one mistake and my life was ruined. One mistake. It just wasn’t fair.