“Neither did you, Daddy.” I reach out and give his hand a firm squeeze. “We’re in this with you by choice. Besides, I’d hate it if I wasn’t there to hear the good news.”
He returns a weak version of my smile and I decide to change the subject. Opening my plastic bag, I pass Daddy the letter from Mama before pulling out the paper chess set and putting the pieces in place.
“Now, on to the really important stuff,” I say. “I learned a new strategy on YouTube this week that’s going to blow your mind.”
Daddy chuckles before cracking his knuckles and leaning forward with a grin. “As the things you tell me you find on the Internet usually do.”
2
BY TUESDAY, I’VE CLEANED my room five times in an effort to keep my mind off Daddy’s upcoming hearing. For the first time I can remember, I almost wish I had school in the summer just so I would have something to distract myself. It’s a momentary and fleeting wish, since most of the time I would give my left kidney to not have to go to that hellish place where everyone—students and faculty alike—watches me like I might morph into a killer at any moment.
Still, saying that I’m in serious need of a diversion is a definite understatement.
I slump down on the couch with my somewhat maimed copy of The Count of Monte Cristo to read for the billionth time. The whole house is dim and I wish I knew when Mama would be home. Rubbing my fingertips against my eyelids, I let the tension from the week seep down into my legs and out through my feet.
I flip open the book, and end up dropping it after only a few pages. I love the story, that isn’t the problem. The house is too quiet around me. It’s peaceful, but sometimes it feels more like our home is wrapped up in a blanket of apprehension. It’s waiting, just like I am. Waiting for the next visitation day, waiting for the next trial date, waiting to read the next letter—or, like right now, waiting for the next appeal hearing in two days.
That’s all we do in my family. Wait.
My nerves get the better of me in the silence. They’re like red ants swarming, creeping in droves under my skin. I can almost feel their tiny feet crawling, but I can’t stop them. I cringe, knowing I’m helpless to prevent the stings from coming at any moment.
I rub my hands along my arms, trying to force away the thoughts, the sensation. Wishing I had something—anything—to do. Then I stop and head toward the stairs.
Right now, I can think of one thing I don’t have to wait for.
The moment I get to my room, I grab the three remaining unread letters from this week’s stack, slip out the one marked May 31, and flop on my bed as I lift the flap. Daddy never bothers to seal these. We learned a long time ago that the guards would open and read every letter he sends home with us anyway, so he doesn’t try to prevent it. Pulling the paper out, I hold it carefully as I read.
Riley,
Happy Tuesday, sweetheart! Hope you’re having a good day. I can’t believe how fast time seems to move these days. It’s always so good to see you. I can’t believe you’ll be eighteen soon. It feels wrong that my own daughter is growing up so much without me. Every time I see you, it seems you look older. Don’t grow up too fast, Ri. I’m still holding out hope that I might somehow find a way to be back at home with you before you move out and on with your own life.
All my love,
Daddy
I read it again, smiling to myself as I remember my last visit. Our chess match this week had been very close. I’d nearly won—something I hadn’t done since I turned nine and realized he was letting me win. I had demanded that he start playing for real, and he’d dominated me ever since.
But I’m learning. I’m getting better with every match and he knows it.
I walk over to my closet. The bottom is filled with neatly stacked shoeboxes. The older letters are packed up and moved into the attic on a regular basis to make room for new ones. I’ve never tried to count how many boxes I’ve piled up over the years, but there are twenty-two in my closet right now. The one on top is the only one not held closed with a large rubber band. I slip the newest letter into it and caress the tops of a few envelopes before putting the lid back on and replacing the box. Mama helped me set up this system way back when Daddy was still on trial. He’d started sending home letters every time we visited him—one letter for every day of the week except visitation day.
Mama and I both expected him to stop or slow down at some point, but he never did. The shoebox stacks are reaching the point where they’re starting to interfere with my hanging clothes again. Knowing I’ll have to move some boxes up to the attic soon forms a ball of sadness in the bottom of my stomach.