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

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Voice of Innocence: A Coming-Of-Age Sweet Romance Page 23

by Lindsay Detwiler


  But then another type of guilt creeps in, derailing me once more.

  What about John? That sweet man who had pulled me out from the hermit-like life I had been leading up until I met him. What about all of our sweet memories—the midnight walks by the lake, the Saturday night trips to the club for some crazy dancing, the family barbecues in Maine with his sister and her family. We had been together for five years, and in those years we had shared laughs, embraces, and tender moments. John had reintroduced me to life, taking me out to experience what it had to offer. He was the warmth that had been missing, the glow stick in a sea of blackness. He was a hero in the ER, but he was also a hero in my life, saving me from a meaningless, emotionless existence. Why weren’t all of the beautiful moments we had shared pervading my thoughts? Why couldn’t I just be happy with what I had? What was wrong with me?

  My mom seemed to think this was my chance to get what I wanted, but didn’t I have what I wanted? Didn’t John fulfill me? Certainly it wasn’t the same as that fulfillment I had found as a teenager with Corbin. It wasn’t the life I had mapped out for myself. But did that matter? Life doesn’t always work out the way we individualistic humans think it should. Sometimes life evolves in ways we couldn’t imagine, but does that make the new life less valuable? Should my relationship with John be degraded, demeaned simply because he wasn’t my first love? Maybe first loves were meant to simply be prequels to the main acts in our lives. They set the stage for reality. John, not Corbin, was now my reality. Could I throw that away for a man I had only known once but didn’t really know now? Maybe I was getting ahead of myself. Maybe Corbin wasn’t even a remote possibility at this point. But even if he was, I had to consider what it could mean for John and me and whether or not I was truly ready to throw all of that away for a man from my past.

  In the depths of the night, though, I am forced to be honest with myself. Corbin isn’t just a fling from the past, a symbol of who I was in a distant history. Corbin is me. Corbin has shaped me into the woman I have become. Everything I am, everything I had been, is related to our relationship. Some of those elements are positive, and many are certainly negative, stemming from the tragedy we had endured. Regardless, though, Corbin is as integral a part of myself as my own soul. If I am being candid, he is still an ever-present part of my heart, shaping my emotions even though he isn’t around. Time has not stretched our love thin to the point of cracking. Time has simply solidified the fact that our love was real. And now I am faced with the question of what all of this means for us, for our future that we never thought was a possibility. Where do we go from here?

  My mind wasn’t always this reminiscent. Up until a few months ago, my life had seemed to move on. Certainly, Corbin still owned a piece of my heart, but he had not flooded my everyday life to this extreme. I was not, on a daily basis, incapacitated by memories of us. Sure, he infiltrated my mind from time to time. Red barns, sled rides, almost anything could bring his memories swirling to the forefront of my mind. Nonetheless, I had learned to assuage thoughts of him by focusing on John. Yes, life had not turned out exactly as I had planned. I never got the true, fairy-tale ending. Yes, I worried about Corbin and wondered how he was doing. I wondered how life could be so unfair and how he could possibly have survived all these years. However, I had resigned Corbin as a distant memory, a part of life that no longer existed and could never exist again. He was a relic from a part of my life that could not be reclaimed. He was a symbol of the injustice in life and the requirement to move on. I felt our relationship had become one-sided, with me simply basking in its glory from time to time in a pointless reverie of what had been and never could be. I had learned in the past few years to let Corbin be a part of my heart without owning it. I had learned that the heart is elastic, that it isn’t always a one-or-the-other type of thing. I still loved Corbin, but I was in love with John. And I was happy.

  That all changed, however, two months ago, when I received that mind-blowing letter in the mail. Suddenly, the “if-onlys” of the past became real possibilities. The past was coming to slam into my present, whether I liked it or not.

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Innocence

  Corbin Jones

  Prisoner# 1825

  SCI-Fayette

  Dear Emma,

  I know this letter must come as a shock to you. It has been so many years, decades, since we last saw each other. I know that is my fault. I’m still sorry for the way I pushed you away that fateful day. However, in many ways, I’m not sorry at all. I did what I thought was right, what I thought was best for you. I didn’t want you to waste your life on a doomed man. I hope you can appreciate that now. I hope you did in fact go out and find that life to live. I’ve heard that you have. I hope you’ve found the happiness that you deserve, the happiness that just wasn’t meant to be with me.

  Those first few months in jail were the hardest. I felt so trapped, so alone, and so hopeless. I missed you and thought about you every day. I wondered what you were doing. I longed to be at that kitchen table eating pancakes with your crazy mom or to take a walk to our tree. I longed to hold you, to tell you it would all be okay. Prison is funny that way—it makes you realize what’s important.

  I got every letter you sent those first few months. It was so hard to read them and not write back or pick up the phone and call you. I longed to hear your voice, to answer your pleas. I wanted nothing more than to write to you and say I was sorry, to come back. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t be that selfish. I kept every letter you sent. I read them over and over for the next two decades. Even today, I still pull them out and read them from time to time. It’s hard to read those final relics of us, but it’s harder to imagine what your life would have been like if I hadn’t done what I did. It hurt to let you go. It would have killed me, though, to watch you waste your life sitting on the sidelines of that jail, imprisoned by my verdict. I couldn’t let that happen.

  Emma, I think about our time together often. In fact, that’s all I do. I remember those stolen kisses on our first sled ride, those days at the lunch table together, even our first fight. I remember confiding in you about Chloe. I remember what it felt like to hold you in the barn that night. I remember what it felt like to slide that cool, silver ring on your finger. I remember what it felt like to look into the horizon and see forever with you.

  Despite everything that has happened, I wouldn’t change a thing. You showed me so much in the years we spent together. You showed me how to have fun at a time when I only knew sorrow. You showed me what a real family could be like by sharing your mom with me. You showed me what it meant to be a real man, a man who loved and was loved. You showed me what it was to dream. I will always love you for that.

  And so, I come to the point of this letter. It is not to make you sad for what once was or what should have been. It is not to beg you to come back to me and visit, to cheer up a pitiful inmate. It is simply to tell you that you were right. You were right all along, Emma.

  The truth has finally shone through.

  Even though I gave up on getting out, my dad and my lawyer never did. All of this time, my dad has been researching and investigating. With the help of my lawyer, he has been rustling for the truth. With the help of a foundation, he has finally found it. More importantly, he has found a way to prove it.

  If you remember, the night I found Randy, there was a knife. At the time, all the police knew was that there was blood on the knife, there was blood on me, and there was a grudge. Case closed.

  Luckily, however, the knife and other evidence were sealed in a plastic evidence bag, thrown in a case box, and jammed into storage where it has remained all these years. It was just six months ago that my dad finally found out that the evidence miraculously still existed. More importantly, he was able to convince an angelic team of amazing lawyers of my innocence. One they got involved, things started to fall into place. With some serious digging, they were able to have DNA tests performed on some skin scrapings that were apparently
taken from under Randy’s nails. The DNA, of course, didn’t match mine. The perpetrator wasn’t me, and the prosecution finally had no choice but to believe it.

  Although the state hasn’t had a problem locking me up for decades for a crime I didn’t commit, it sure is taking its time to get me out of here. There is legal tape we have to break through, more trials and meetings and examinations. But then, as my lawyer assures me, it will all be over. I will finally be a free man. Randy’s killer is still out there. They haven’t figured out who it is yet. But they know it isn’t this man who is the killer, and that is good enough for me.

  In many ways, it seems surreal. I expected to spend the rest of my days locked up in here and now reality is setting in. You would think I would be overjoyed. In some ways I am, but I am also just drowning in countless emotions. A part of me is thankful, thankful to the group of angels who toiled for a man they didn’t even know just so that innocence could prevail. I’m angry that it took this many years for the truth to be revealed. I’m enraged that the evidence was sitting there in a box when I was locked up. How could this evidence be overlooked all these years? If I’m being honest, though, I’m also terrified. I never had to think about establishing a life beyond meal time, lifting weights, and avoiding the other inmates who were dangerous. Now I am faced with the ever-present question in the human lifespan: Now what? What place is there in a world for an ex-innocent-shouldn’t-have-been-convict who has spent his entire adult life in prison? I don’t even know what the world is like anymore. I only know the prison world. How do I adjust to freedom? Where do I go? How will people treat me? To be honest, Em, I am more afraid to face the outside world than to stay in here.

  When I heard the official news, the first person I thought of was you. I hesitated to write this letter. I didn’t want to intrude in a life that I know has been built without me. But I felt I owed it to you. I remember that last meeting we had, the one with the painful goodbye. I remember promising you if I ever got out, if I ever was freed, I would hope we could meet again. I promised I would keep my heart open for you. I thought you should know the truth has prevailed, just like you said it would. It just took a bit longer than expected.

  I am not writing this to turn your world upside down or to beg for you back. I love you, Em, as much as I did when we were crazy, love-drunk teenagers. I truly believe that we could have been amazing together, that our lives would have been a tumult of memories and beautiful moments. I wish we had had the chance to find out.

  I know, however, that time has passed. A lot of it. Our ship has sailed into the distance and it wasn’t a round-trip fare. Life has marched on, and with it, I know that things have changed. I am sure you have built a beautiful life for yourself with beautiful people—that is what I wanted you to do. That is what I hope you did. I mean it, Em. I hope you got everything you ever wanted. I hope you are surrounded by success, love, and, most importantly, happiness.

  I am writing this simply to tell you the truth, a truth that has finally been substantiated. I am writing this to say thank you for believing in me.

  If I shall have the blessing to come across you in this crazy, free world, I will meet you with nothing but a smile and well wishes.

  I am writing to tell you that you were the love of my life and always will be. There never comes a day when your face doesn’t plaster itself in my mind, our memories don’t dance in my daydreams.

  I hope that you are not upset by this letter. I hope that, if anything, you will simply smile because the world, after all, does have a sense of fairness to it. I hope that through the years, you have seen nothing but evidence of this.

  I love you, forever. Take care. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. Farewell again.

  Love,

  Me

  Chapter Thirty-Six: Pasta and Promises

  Emma

  I must have read that letter seventy times. I would sneak it out of its hiding place in my jewelry box when John was at work. I would read it in the middle of the night when he was at the ER. I would slip it into my purse and read it in the car when I was grocery shopping. I read it and read it until I didn’t have to read it anymore. Every word was burned into my memory, carved on my soul.

  When I first received that envelope in the mailbox, I had stopped in disbelief at the return address. My hands started sweating, my brain turned to mush, and I felt like my legs weren’t even part of my body. I stood in the driveway, pausing for an eternity. I was debating with myself whether I should read it at all, though I don’t think it was ever a question. Slowly, deliberately, I had ripped the envelope open.

  The words flowed off the page, yet they didn’t seem to make sense. I had to read it twice just to understand it. Even then, only a few phrases stood out. “The truth…,” “DNA,” “Free,” “Love…” So it was finally happening. After all this time, the evidence proved without a doubt that he didn’t do it.

  Not that I had ever doubted that fact. I had known from the beginning it wasn’t true. Yet, I had walked away. I had chosen a life without Corbin rather than a life with him, even if that meant a life with him behind bars. I had made a choice, and now I was living with it. The question was could I live with that choice now, even when I didn’t have to?

  For weeks, months, I was plagued by what the letter could mean. Corbin said he hadn’t wanted to interrupt my life, and I believed him. But the simple truth was that this letter, in many ways, changed everything. The truth had surfaced. Everything I had hoped for had been substantiated. But was it too late? As Corbin said, what now?

  If I could go back and tell my nineteen-year-old self that this would happen, would I have done things the same? Would I have still vowed to move on from Corbin, still turned my back on him, still obeyed his command to make a life for myself?

  Would I still have said yes to John?

  I was so happy to find out that Corbin was getting out, that his life could begin. Yet I was also devastated. For with this change of events came new pangs of guilt, new what ifs that rotated constantly through my mind.

  Then came the questions. Would he be okay? Where would he go now? What would he do with his life? Did he have anyone to support him?

  One question, though, rose above the rest, painting a clear picture of where my heart was, even after all these years: Would he keep his promise to find me, even after all of this time? And more importantly, did I want him to?

  For weeks, I tossed the letter around in my mind, not sure what to do about it. A part of me raced for a tablet to write a reply. A part of me held back, not sure if I wanted to commit to that open bridge just yet.

  To make matters more complicated, John started to notice my suddenly erratic behavior. One night at dinner, he finally confronted me.

  “Em, is everything okay?” he asked, setting his fork down and reaching across the bistro table in the café to grasp my hand.

  “It’s fine, why would you ask?” I offered, casting my eyes toward my plate of pasta.

  “Emma, it’s me you’re talking to. I know you. Something’s off lately. What’s going on?” John didn’t move his eyes from mine, demanding the truth with his body language. I knew I couldn’t keep this from him. Soon it would probably make headlines.

  I sighed, putting down my fork as well and finally meeting his eyes. My heart palpitated as I brought myself to say the words. “There’s been a development.”

  John just stared at me blankly, waiting for a more substantial explanation. “Okay…” he encouraged.

  “With Corbin. He’s been proven innocent.”

  John’s eyebrows raised, demonstrating that this was far from what he had expected. “Oh my God, Em. That’s crazy. I don’t know what to say.” His words were soft, melodious even. Comfort resonated from his voice, but turmoil softened his face. He wasn’t sure what this meant, and his eyes seemed to search mine in hopes of finding an answer, an answer that he wanted.

  “Yeah, it’s crazy. It’s just been on my mind lately. I mean, after all
this time, to find the truth now. I just feel horrible that it took this long. Imagine, twenty-eight years...” My eyes instinctively averted down again as I found myself lost in the tidal wave of guilt and memories.

  We sat in silence for a long moment before John finally spoke.

  “Em, I don’t want to sound insensitive or insecure. I know why this bothers you, and I understand. It’s a lot to take in. It’s such a heavy situation. But I have to ask. What does this mean for you? For us?” John ambled over the words cautiously, afraid to offend me or make me feel bad.

  I quickly darted my eyes to him, “It doesn’t mean anything. Not as far as we’re concerned. John, if you’re even insinuating that…” I pounced on him rapidly, without intending to. This is why I had kept the letter a secret, not mentioning it. I knew John would wonder. How couldn’t he? I had told him the entire story, including the fact that we hadn’t talked in decades because we knew there wasn’t a chance for his release. With his release imminent, though, who could blame John for wondering if things were about to change?

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. I just had to know if this, you know, changed anything.” John gazed at me intently, lovingly. John wasn’t the kind of guy to be insecure or protective. He was always open with me, giving me a sense of easy freedom. He wasn’t quick to judge or to grow jealous. He seemed secure in our relationship and in the fact that my past was the past.

 

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