by Max Henry
“Why?”
“You really want to know?”
“Right,” I say, dragging out the word. It’s like that.
“Where am I supposed to go?” I ask, dropping my head to my arms again. “I can’t afford anything, and there is no way in hell I’m suffering through pretending I’m sorry just to get back under Mum and Dad’s roof.”
She pats my hand. “We’ll work something out.”
Her phone chimes from where she’d dropped her bag by the front door, and she gets up to retrieve it. Her brow pinches as she studies the message.
“What is it?”
“Just Dad, saying if I’m going to the hearing to take Brett some clothes so he’s got a fresh change for the courtroom.”
“Thoughtful,” I sass.
“Right? It’s just him trying to butter me up so I come home and keep doing the housework.” She laughs humourlessly, fingering the light bruise on her cheek. “Anyway, I better go grab his gear and get a shower myself before this thing kicks off. Meet you back here in an hour?”
I nod. The courthouse is only a few blocks from the motel, but I guess she’s concerned about how I’ll fill the time. “Will you get to see him beforehand if you’re taking him clean clothes?” Maybe I could take them instead.
“Nope. He won’t be allowed to talk to anyone until he’s either on bail or transferred to the remand centre. We can be in the courtroom for the hearing, though—we don’t have to wait out front—but you won’t get to say a thing while he’s in there.”
“As long as I get to see him.” He has to know I’m there, that I’m going to stand by him no matter what. A strange morbid excitement bubbles within me at the thought I’ll be able to make eye contact with Carver within a few hours. It’s only been two nights, technically one, but when we haven’t spent more than a couple of hours apart for the last week, it’s strange.
“How about you take a walk after I go, huh? Get some fresh air.” Tanya grabs her bag and hesitates at the door to my room. “You look like you need to just take a step back and remember how to breathe, honey.”
“I’m worried, is all.”
“I know. I am too. But what happens, happens, and best we can do is try to control what we can, not attempt to move mountains for the sake of a better view.”
“See you in an hour, then.”
“Sure thing.” She opens the door and steps out onto the covered walkway. “And Meg?”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever comes out of this, don’t let it change the way you look at Brett. He’s still not the same guy he once was—he’s better since you came along.”
She closes the door, and I pull my legs up to my chest as the muted rumble of the Falcon filters through the walls. The longer I’m without him by my side to distract me, the more I start to wonder just who Brett Carver really is?
Maybe a little distance isn’t such a bad thing after all.
***
The public seating in the courtroom is next to empty. There are five other people here aside from Tanya and me, and they’re what I assume to be the family or friends of the people who’ve stood before the judge prior to Carver.
The time we were given was for the general court session, not his judgment specifically. I’ve listened to the judge hand out decisions on drunk drivers, repeat offenders for minor things such as tagging and fine evasion, and even the grilling he gave a man regarding domestic violence before he sent him off to remand without bail.
All of our futures hang in the balance with a man who may or may not have had enough coffee this morning. It’s his decision, and that’s final.
I’ve lost interest in the goings-on by the seventh person, and stare down at my hands as I pick at the nail polish Tanya gave me before we came to try and kill time. She glances over and smacks my hand as the court officer stands to announce Carver.
This is it. I’ve never been more anxious in my life. My ears hurt from the pressure of my elevated pulse, my head pounds, and my legs feel like cement. I could vomit. I feel so damn sick, so nervous, and so helpless to what happens next.
The door to the right of the judge opens, and everything fades around me as Carver walks in. He’s still in the clothes they arrested him in, obviously never given a chance to change into what we handed over at least two hours ago. His head is down, his hands cuffed before him. Look at me. Just look up. He keeps his head bowed the whole way to where he is supposed to stand, even as the officer guides him around so he faces the judge and his back is to us. Why didn’t you look up?
Tanya’s hand finds mine and we sit like statues as they go through the motions before the decision is handed down. This is it. The judge pauses to look Carver over head to toe. Crunch time.
The charges are read, the situation explained as though none of us have already heard it, or replayed it, a thousand times. The whole time Carver refuses to look at anyone, even when the judge states his final decision.
“Given your prior conviction, and the danger you represent as a flight risk with your violence when being taken into custody on both occasions, I have decided against bail in this instance. You will be transferred to a remand facility to await trail.” He slams the gavel down, and my stomach hits the floor. “Dismissed.”
Look at me! I scoot forward on my uncomfortable-as-fuck wooden seat and grip the back of the vacant chair in front of me. He shuffles to the right, lifting his arm slightly so the court officer can grab his elbow, and heads back to the holding cells.
No. I slump, certain he’s hell-bent on avoiding us, and almost miss him twist in the officer’s hold to look back over his shoulder. The jerky way he moves, the fact he leaves it to the last second—it’s as though he battled within himself not to do it.
Our eyes meet, for the briefest of seconds.
So much is said.
I’m sorry.
I’ve let you down.
I understand.
His lips stay downturned at the corners, and he swallows when I give a weak smile. Carver’s eyes drop to the floor as the officer gives him a jerk to keep moving, and that’s when I know it.
He’s not going to fight the charges.
He’s going to plead guilty.
TWENTY-SIX
As soon as we’re informed what facility they plan to transfer him to, I fill out the paperwork to apply for a visitor’s pass. Luckily for me, the cut-off for a minor is at age sixteen, so I’m able to apply without needing it signed off by my parents.
The approval takes three working days to come through, and a further four to reach me in the mail. By the time I have permission to visit Carver in Kirkman Prison, close to the city, almost two weeks have passed since the preliminary hearing.
Two weeks that I’ve spent resenting his father for not being more.
And two weeks that Tanya has been the friend I always wished I’d had.
My birthday is tomorrow, and I see Carver this afternoon. I’m calling it an early present. Not like I’m going to get much else from anyone.
Mum and Dad haven’t tried to make contact at all, and I haven’t found reason to try and talk to them again, either. As far as I know, they’re happy living a life spent in denial. How neither of them could accept any responsibility nor blame for what’s happened since Den’s death, I don’t know.
But then, it makes me wonder: were the cracks there all along, and this was the final stress test that broke the foundations of a perfect nuclear family?
All I know for sure is that it’s left me out on my arse way earlier than I had planned, and way underprepared. My savings ran dry three days ago; my phone needs a recharge that I can’t afford. The motel was far too costly for me to carry on paying for on my meagre wages, so the day after Carver’s hearing I borrowed an outdated Yellow Pages directory from the motel office and phoned around the local hostels. Lucky for me, the one three blocks over from the supermarket had a space… as long as I didn’t mind shared eating and bathing facilities.
I’ve become a pro at living
the frugal life. Tanya gave me a dressing down when she visited yesterday and opened my small pantry to discover I’ve literally been living on cornflakes and two-minute noodles. Yet when I can buy both, plus a litre of milk, for less than ten dollars, it’s a no-brainer that my diet has been the first thing to suffer in my newly acquired solo life.
But whatever. Beggars can’t be choosers. And some beggars can’t use the old-fashioned industrial washers and driers properly, it seems. I reach down and rub the residual washing powder from my dark jeans and suck in a huge breath.
“You okay?”
The Falcon tears along the last stretch of open road that leads to Kirkman. The bland grey walls of the compound loom in the distance past a stand of pine trees. We’re almost there, almost in the same place as Carver.
“I’m good. Just reflecting on things,” I answer.
She glances over as she drives, smiling pitifully. “Tends to be easier to get on with things when you don’t dwell on the past, honey.”
“I know.” My gaze tracks the razor wire-topped fence as it grows and expands on our approach. “I was more trying to work out the reasoning behind why everything’s turned out like it has, than anything else.”
She laughs humourlessly. “Oh, Meg. Give up now. Honestly. You try and work out why the universe continually chooses to fuck us over, you’ll do your head in.”
I would have had to travel by bus, and then taxi, to the grounds on the outskirts of the city, but Tanya offered me a ride today, despite the fact she isn’t approved as a visitor yet. She was adamant that I needed to save what it would have cost me in fares for better groceries this week. Hey, maybe I’ll splash out and get myself a candy bar on the way through the checkout? But then I may also squirrel the saved coin away for the inevitable bond when I do find somewhere to rent.
“Have you looked over course options yet?” Tanya slows the car to pull in the long gravel driveway of the prison.
She nagged me relentlessly last week to give going to university a second thought. I met her halfway by agreeing to check out the community colleges. The course options for what I want to do are similar, but the cost is way less.
“I’m waiting to hear back if they have space, considering it would be a late enrolment.”
“What do you mean, would be? Haven’t you enrolled?”
I stare out the window at the endless expanse of grass between the perimeter fence and the stand of trees by the road.
“Meg?”
“I want to talk to Brett first.”
“About what? What the hell say has he got in it?”
My silence speaks volumes as we slow for the first gatehouse.
Tanya sighs pointedly. “Honey, don’t throw away your dreams because of him. I’m not saying be selfish and live as though he doesn’t exist, but make the two work together. If it’s meant to be he’ll follow you to the ends of the earth, or wait for you to come back. Either way, don’t give up on yourself for the sake of keeping him happy.”
A guard approaches the car, effectively cutting our conversation short and giving Tanya the last word. I ponder over her reasoning as the guy dressed all in grey circles the vehicle, checking the wheel arches, underbody, and then the boot after Tanya opens it for him. Could our lives work together if he’s sentenced? Would Carver see it as me quitting on him? If I were in his position I know I’d feel at least some resentment if the person I loved took off to enjoy life while I was stuck behind bars.
Getting ahead of yourself, Meg. He’s remanded, not sentenced. He may walk free yet. Should walk free. God, I hope he walks free.
Tanya drops back in the driver seat and the guard opens the rear doors in turn to search the back. We’re asked to exit the vehicle as they give our seats a once-over, and then satisfied we’re not trying to get in a supply of crack or Hershey’s Gold for the inmates, the guard waves us through.
The car park alone is intimidating and confusing enough. Signs point to separate parking areas for the different sections of the prison, worn arrows painted on the concrete directing the flow of traffic between the areas. Tanya pulls the Falcon into a park surprisingly near to the main entrance and kills the engine.
“Look at me, hon.”
I swivel to face her. “What?”
“You can’t go in there looking like that.”
I lean over and grab hold of the rear-view mirror, angling it my way so I can get a look at what she means. “Do I have something on my face?”
She tuts, drawing my attention back to her. “Only the look of a woman who’s all but given up on life.”
“I do not.” I slump back in my seat, fidgeting with the edge of my T-shirt.
“He’ll be excited to see you regardless,” she assures me, “but there’s no reason to make him worry about you when he can’t do a damn thing about it.”
My chest expands with a deep breath, and I focus on a good memory to pull me out of this. “How’s this?” I lay on the best smile I can, and immediately lose it at the shocked expression I gain in response. “What?”
“On second thoughts, just be you.”
“No good?”
“Not unless you’re going for ‘crazy lady about to abduct Girl Guides for their cookies.’”
I chuckle, staring out the windscreen at the nondescript automatic doors. A large planter tub sits on either side with a spiky fern in each. My gaze drifts to where the visitor approval letter sits on the dashboard. Brave face, Meg.
“Anything you’d like me to tell him?” I ask.
Tanya shrugs, staring down at her hands as she methodically wrings them around the bottom of the steering wheel. “Don’t think so. I’ll wait to see when his trial date is set for before I worry about getting visitor approval.” She shrugs again, a small smile full of hope playing on her lips. “It might not be that long, given his offences are minor.”
“Except for the assault on an officer,” I remind her.
“Yeah, that.” She reaches across and passes me the letter. “Now go, before you’re late and they make you reschedule.”
I pull in a deep breath and take the slip of paper, adorned with the New Zealand coat of arms, from her grasp. “See you on the flip side.”
The gentle breeze that tickles at my ears as I step out of the Falcon pisses me off immediately. It’s a hint of summer, a reminder of Christmas holidays spent running around backyards, playing in the long grass on the vacant sections near our house that are now populated with apartment blocks. It’s happier times, mocking me with their contrast to where life ended up.
A buzzer sounds as the main doors are opened from inside, and I make my way across the clinical white tiles to the front desk. A woman in a pale grey uniform moves to my end of the counter and looks at me, waiting.
Heel of my hand working circles on my chest, I state, “I’m here to visit an inmate.”
“Prisoner,” she corrects gently, looking down to her desk as she types on a concealed keyboard. “We call them prisoners. Who are you here to see, love?”
“Brett Carver.”
“And your name?”
“Megan Andrews.”
Her fingers beat out a rhythm on the keys, and she frowns, her arm moving as she presumably works a mouse. Heat builds behind my ears, my stomach doing flips as she murmurs under her breath. What’s wrong? Surely I’m not going to make it this far and be denied?
“Ah, there it is.” She flashes me a warm smile. “Just a number I needed was entered in the wrong field.”
Breathe, Meg. “Oh, okay.”
A printer whirs behind her, and she swivels to snatch up a slip of paper with adhesive labels affixed. Tearing one off, she applies it to a fluorescent green wristband, and gestures for me to offer my arm. I stick my hand out, and she explains as she affixes the identity band.
“You’ll need this secured for your entire visit. It’s your identification, and your insurance policy to make sure you get where you need to go with minimal disruption. Should it become damage
d, or become loose, alert the nearest officer to you.”
I nod, my heart thundering in my ears.
She slips her hand over mine after attaching the band, and smiles. “First time?”
Words fail me, so I nod yet again like a stupid fucking dashboard novelty.
“Despite how it might seem, we’re here to help. If you feel unsure about anything, just say so, and we’ll do our best to explain or answer your questions.”
“Thank you.”
“Now.” She slips her hand away and points to the corridor to her left. “Head that way and you’ll see the officers at check-in. You’ll be wanded, and if they deem necessary, a rub-down search will be undertaken. You’ll then be directed to the visitors’ room, where an officer will show you to your table. You are entitled to a greeting hug and/or kiss, and one on departure. Other than that, there is to be no touching between you and the prisoner.”
“Understood.”
“You will need to check in with me on departure also.”
A family of three arrives behind me, and I’m overcome by the need to get moving to stop holding other people up—people who appear more experienced and less skittish than I am.
The woman behind the desk gives me a nod to indicate I can leave, and I hotfoot it around the reception desk to follow the corridor. Three coloured lines are painted on the floor, and memories of the same system being used at the hospital when Den was hurt as a kid flash through my head.
What would you think of this, big bro? His little sis visiting her criminal beau in the slammer?
I reach the next station, and promptly go through the motions: emptying my pockets into a plastic tray and lifting my arms so the middle-aged guy with a little more paunch on his midsection than I would have thought corrections officers are allowed, can wand me. The handheld device does its horrible whirr and beeps, and I’m guided through to collect my things again before we start down another corridor to the visitors’ room.
The closer we get, the more signs that show we’re just around the corner, the harder my heart beats, and the tougher it is to breathe. A set of double doors halts the officer’s progress, and I pull in a deep breath as he reaches out a hand to push them open.