Voice of Innocence: A Coming-Of-Age Sweet Romance

by Lindsay Detwiler

  No one can bring her back to me, either, which, if I’m being honest, is what this true rage is focused around.

  For of all the things I have lost—the freedom to choose my life, a career, a house, children—she is what my heart aches for the most. The what-ifs plague my mind relentlessly until I can barely stand to breathe.

  When I thought all hope was lost, when I thought this would be my life, it seemed somewhat bearable. I knew I had done the right thing, that she was better off.

  Yet, when the lawyer from the foundation approached me upon my dad’s request and said we had a real shot at proving my innocence, old, familiar anger refurbished itself in my cell. Why now? Where was this proof for the nineteen-year-old boy, facing the potential loss of everything? Where had this voice of innocence been then, when I needed it, when it could have made a difference? Where was it when it could have saved the life Emma and I had been planning, when it could have ensured a life worth living? And more importantly, was this voice even worth anything now? What life did I have to return to? What could possibly be left for me except disappointment and reminders of all that was lost, archaic symbols of a past that would never transpire into a future?

  Some might say that I am overreacting. Sure, I should be pissed and regretful of all that I lost, but shouldn’t I also be appreciative that I am getting out now? I am forty-seven, true, but I’m not dead. I still have choices and chances ahead of me; the possibilities are just waiting for me. My name has been cleared, the battle has been won, even though it took longer than expected. I am free. Some unlucky souls would die for this opportunity, no matter how long it took.

  Certainly, the potential for sunshine warming my skin outside of these bars, the chance to eat real food and decide what I do every day, has lightened my spirits. I can’t wait to be able to simply drive to a fast food restaurant just because I feel like it or get in the car and just go anywhere I want. It will be great to leave my house without being patted down for weapons, to share a meal with people other than a burglar and a true murderer. I can find a job, find a purpose to my daily life, other than just surviving. I can go to sleep in a bed that isn’t underneath a guy I barely know. I can wake up and walk out of the door of my room, free to encounter the day. I can buy a house, meet new people. I can choose my destiny. Maybe I’ll even get a dog or go on a vacation. In some ways, I can’t wait to get out there and make up for all of the things I missed, to just explore and experience. I can’t wait to fill my life story with more than just a jail cell.

  Despite these lists of things I can’t wait to do, a part of me knows that all of this will be somewhat pointless. I can go to Hawaii for a month, I can go skydiving, I can eat the biggest burger in America, but I’ll never be happy. Things will never be okay. I have been tainted by a lie, ruined by circumstances, forever changed by the drop of the gavel. I cannot go back to that fearless, free boy I once was. I cannot grasp that enthusiasm for life I had before. I can pack hundreds of experiences into the next few years, but what for? What will it all mean? I have been hardened in some ways that are irrevocable. I have lost faith in much of humanity. I have lost faith in higher powers as well. How could a just God allow this to happen? What was the purpose of this? Why me?

  These questions battle with my mind and heart every day, wrestling with the peace of my soul. In prison, time is the only thing you have too much of, so I have had a lot of time to do soul searching and to wonder what will happen if I ever get out. I have come to the conclusion that life can never be the same and that my faith can’t either. Some men in here find a stronger sense of faith due to the circumstances. For many, like me, though, God becomes as distant a figure as freedom. Especially those in my boat, those who are truly innocent. Yes, God tests us, but isn’t this a bit extreme? Why are some tested more than others? What did I do to deserve this?

  Amidst all of this inner turmoil also lies confusion. Where do I go from here? My résumé only has laundry-folding in the correctional center. True, I will be exonerated, my criminal record wiped clean. But will this matter in the real world? In a perfect world, I would be treated with pity. Society would feel somewhat of a debt to me for the wrongdoing against me. In the real world, though, I can’t help but think that I will be shunned even though I haven’t done anything wrong. The stigma of prison will stamp itself on me, even if this isn’t where I belong. I will be outcast with the rest of the criminals, if not for my record, then for my lack of skills and contribution to society. What’s the best that I can possibly do out there without training, experience, or a degree? Is fry-flipping in my future? Has it all come to this?

  A part of me can’t wait to sniff the air of a free man, but a part of me fears that the air will quickly turn polluted.

  I walk into the meeting, my face heavy with grief and worry.

  “Mr. Jones,” the District Attorney says. I nod silently toward him in acknowledgment of his greeting. “On behalf of the state of Pennsylvania, I grant you exoneration from all counts held against you. I also grant you a settlement determined at an amount of $400,000 for your pain and suffering over the past twenty-eight years. You are free to gather your things and go.”

  And with that, I am finally free to walk out of the prison for good. I sit for a while in silence, disbelief leading to hesitancy. It’s over, I say to myself. But in the back of my mind, I wonder if it really is.

  Chapter Sixteen: Rust Bucket Road Trip

  Corbin

  After my things are gathered and I change into the outfit my dad brought for me, I am free to walk out of the prison. It’s an odd feeling to be able to walk out of the gates. They slam shut behind me as I finally reach the outer gate. I look over my shoulder, almost expecting to be detained for escaping. Yet no guard comes after me. Instead, I am almost detained by another type of authority—the media. My story has apparently become a news sensation in the past few weeks. I dodge flashes and questions, just wanting privacy. I walk beside my dad toward his station wagon, my face down. We manage to shove away some pushy media outlets. My dad starts his car, yells a few harsh words out the window, and threatens to run down any SOB who doesn’t get out of the way. Coming from his frail figure, the words seem misplaced. Apparently, the camera crews sense this, too, because amazingly they obey him.

  Age has not crept up on my now seventy-five-year-old dad; it has almost bowled him over. He uses a cane, arthritis threatening to steal his ability to walk. His hands are shaky with the onset of Parkinson’s, and his mind isn’t always one hundred percent on. Yet, when the time came to turn to someone for the details of my release, he didn’t hesitate to take the reins. Even though I knew it wasn’t easy, he made arrangements and answered all types of questions. He has dodged the media at his home for weeks since word got out about my release. When the day finally arrived, he sat in his car for the three hour drive to pick me up.

  Sitting beside my dad is, in some ways, like sitting beside a virtual stranger. It’s not his fault, though. He never abandoned me or gave up on me. The harsh realities of physical distance, nonetheless, have strained our connection, despite his attempts at letters and phone calls. I know that he has done his best. My dad did not visit me often during my sentence, but he came whenever he could manage. It was not an easy affair with his ailments, but he always managed to make it to see me at least once every few months. Although his visits weren’t frequent, his letters were. Written words cannot substitute for face to face interaction, but they have helped. We may be on the verge of “stranger” status, but I know there is hope for a rekindling of our father-son relationship.

  Many weeks, my dad’s letters were the only letters I received, and they helped keep me out of the grips of complete isolation. His words weren’t gushy or overly optimistic. They were often quite simply details of his everyday life, which had become almost as monotonous as mine in prison. He had never remarried after my mom, choosing a life dedicated to his work over any personal relationships. In the early days, he was my staunchest suppo
rter in the battle for my life. Even years after the verdict, he continued to do everything he could to turn things in my favor. It was he who wrote to various foundations and groups repeatedly in the past decade, hoping against all odds that his letter would be picked out of the thousands they received. It took a lot of time, but his pursuits finally achieved success about a year ago when a group agreed to fight for my cause.

  It was an understatement to say that I owed my dad a lot for all that he did over the years. In a way, it wasn’t just my life that was ripped from me—it was his, too. He was robbed of the chance at seeing his child become successful or have children. He was robbed of a family because I was robbed of a family. I could see that we had a lot in common because of the droning lives of seclusion we had been forced to live.

  Yet here we were, rising from the ashes together, ready to embark on a new era. Who could be sure what that era would hold, but at least we would now have each other. My dad wouldn’t be all alone, left to care for himself and the house in his condition. So the trusty station wagon squeaked along the road, heading into the distance, speeding away from the nightmare that had ripped our lives from us.

  Since I didn’t have a license, my dad was forced to drive us home. We sat in silence for a few minutes, both stunned that this was truly happening. It seemed surreal and anticlimactic. After all that had happened, here’s where it ended. A rust bucket station wagon with oldies tunes belting in the breeze, windows down, taking us back home. When my dad finally spoke, I was shocked by his words.

  “So are you going to go see her?” he asks, eyes not leaving the road.

  “Who?” I question, looking over at him.

  “Emma, of course. I thought you’d be anxious to see her.”

  I sigh, shaking my head at the mention of her name.

  “I don’t think so. It’s been so long. I don’t think it would be good,” I mumble, staring at the trees passing by.

  “Son, what do you mean? You don’t think she’s thinking about you? Your story has been on every news station for the past week. I’m sure she’s expecting you,” he says, glancing over at me for the first time. We are stopped at a red light.

  “She’s married. I don’t think she’ll want to see me,” I mutter.

  “Son, she’s still living in town. You’re bound to run into her at some point. You might as well make it on your terms,” he reports, and then reaches over to turn up the radio.

  We spend the rest of the ride in easy silence, both lost in our complicated thoughts. I had been considering the idea of seeing her for decades. Yet, now that it is a possibility, I am reluctant. How would I feel about seeing her again? What would it do to her? How could I face her after that meeting so many years ago? How could I admit that I was wrong? Questions dizzy my mind until I drift off in the passenger’s seat, not ready to take over the driver’s seat just yet.

  Chapter Seventeen: Imperfections

  Emma

  A gusty chill shivers through my spine as the once-gentle breeze gushes with newfound intensity. The threat of an incoming storm crashes into my thoughts like a sailboat careening into an undetected rock. The brewing storm creeps through my bones, prompting me to face the present day and head for cover.

  “Hank…Hank, c’mon, let’s go inside,” I say as I shake the mammoth-sized dog awake. He snorts and groans, stretching to his feet with a sense of lethargy still ricocheting through his bones. I reach for my almost-empty glass and stumble to my own two feet. Hank follows behind me with painfully sluggish movements. At this rate, we would drown in the rain before we spanned the whole ten feet to the kitchen door. Maybe it was time to stop feeding Hank so many hot wings, pizza, and peanut butter sundaes. Then again, I think as my empty hand absentmindedly feels my ever-growing stomach pooch, maybe I could afford to eat some celery and carrot sticks, too. My mother’s voice rings in my mind like a nightmare.

  “All of that wine you drink is either going straight to your ass or to a disgusting, blubbery pooch on your stomach. And trust me,” her nagging voice echoes in my brain, “no one’s going to want to jump your bones when that happens. No one.” Great. Now the woman was torturing me without even being around.

  Sighing, I slide open the kitchen door and glide inside. Hank groggily follows, groaning in agitation at the prospect of moving locations yet again. My restlessness was ruining his nap. After finishing the last sip of the alcohol (I’d worry about the stomach pooch tomorrow and do a few extra sit ups), I strategically stack my glass in the myriad dishes overflowing from the sink. I decide to retreat to the couch, pulling out Glamour Magazine on the way. I hope that celebrity gossip and makeup tricks will numb my overworked mind. Hank, sick of my inability to sit still, plops down in the middle of the living room floor. He is snoring in about two minutes. I envy his lack of worries and thoughts. I wish I could succumb to mindless sleep so easily.

  As I flip the pages of the magazine, I note two things. One, none of the models have any resemblance of a stomach pooch. I guess they never sip wine. Or down a few dozen hot wings. Oh well, I guess someone has to sacrifice in order to be in the magazine. I’m just glad it’s not me. The second thing I notice is that the models and the “life-changing” beauty products advertised are all streaming together into a pile of pointlessness. No matter how hard I try, I cannot focus my mind on anything tonight—anything except for him.

  Plopping the magazine into my lap, a new thought claims my mind. Why were only the happy moments of our relationship floating relentlessly through my mind? True, our love had been hopelessly idealistic. We had been, as cheesy as it seems, the center of each other’s universe. There were zillions of ridiculously romantic moments in our book of memories. The majority of our days, I had to admit, began and ended in a dream-like state of ecstasy. Just being together, talking to each other, or even thinking about each other electrified us. In Corbin I found a seemingly unattainable joy, comfort, and a vivacity equivalent to an adrenaline rush. Unlike other couples, we had not endured the rocky roller coaster of many typical teenage relationships, at least not for the most part. I watched friends endure breakups and reconnections with only a few hours separating the two “life changing” events, while Corbin and I stayed steady on an even, Zen-filled road of joy. In short, we were the couple that everyone would love to hate out of sheer jealousy.

  Nonetheless, our love wasn’t always easy or perfect. Like all couples, we had our shaky moments. We argued. We gave each other the silent treatment. I cried, and he swore. We pushed painful buttons, and we pushed each other away.

  Our worst fight lasted two agonizing weeks. It was during September of our senior year. Looking back, I had been ridiculous in my stubbornness. I had let my trust in others outweigh my trust in Corbin, my trust in us. I had let doubt and self-consciousness cloud my faith. Looking back, I would do anything to have those precious, wasted moments back.

  * * * *

  Memories

  It began on a Friday. Corbin was out sick. It was a genuine illness this time, unlike the “Friday Flu” he sometimes got. I glumly walked into the lunchroom alone, counting the hours until I could head to Corbin’s house with some chicken soup and Jaws to cheer him up.

  After claiming my less-than-delicious-looking chicken patty and fries, I grabbed my usual seat across from Jenn, Hannah, and Katie.

  “Hey guys,” I said, the melancholy in my voice hard to disguise.

  “Oh, hey,” Katie said. “Where’s Corbin?”

  “Sick.”

  “Wait, you mean he’s not attached to your hip today? A whole day apart? How will you ever survive?” Jenn said, rolling her eyes.

  “I don’t know,” I glowered. Lately, she had been a little edgy toward me and especially toward Corbin. I didn’t understand it.

  Katie sensed the tension. “She’s just kidding, Emma.” She shot Jenn a warning look.

  “Well, I’m just worried about her. She can’t live for a second without him. How will she handle it if he leaves her or someth
ing?” Jenn said, feigning concern.

  “Well, he won’t,” I declared, staring across the table at Jenn. What was her problem today?

  “Don’t be so sure,” she muttered under her breath as she plunked a fry into her ketchup.

  “Jenn, don’t,” Hannah said, speaking up for the first time.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I half yelled across the table. “Okay, Jenn, cut the crap. What’s your problem?”

  “It’s not my problem, Emma. It’s kind of your problem.” Katie and Hannah just stared at her, as confused as I was. They didn’t say a word, curiosity goading them into silence.

  “What are you talking about?” I murmured, a little softer this time.

  “Let me ask you this. Where were you and Corbin on Tuesday night?” she interrogated. I felt like she already knew the answer.

  “Tuesday?” I stopped and perused my recollections. “Tuesday…Corbin was with his dad. We didn’t hang out. He had to help him paint their bathroom. Why?”