Prison Nation

by Jenni Merritt

  “I remember when this was a city. Just a city,” she said, turning her eyes to me.

  I cleared my still dry throat and looked back at the poster. “That was a long time ago,” I replied, willing my voice to stay even.

  I didn’t want the sudden butterflies in my stomach to make themselves known. Though I would casually talk to others when the need arose, I preferred the mostly antisocial life. I had never been in any sort of fight or dispute, and I owed it all to my willingness to not make lasting friends. Or, most times, to even speak.

  “Yes, well, if you can’t tell, I am pretty old.” Her voice cracked as she let out a snicker. “I barely remember that city. Only went there myself once. But it wasn’t a bad one. Then they plowed it through and made this… prison.” The old woman sighed and slowly shook her head. Her eyes, sunk under wrinkles, turned to look at me. “Are you a convict or a Jail Baby?”

  I clenched my jaw at the name. Without answering, I turned my eyes back to the poster. It was hard to believe that Spokane was once a city. I tried to imagine it: skyscrapers touching the clouds, sunshine beating on tourists, sprawling parks full of green grass and laughter. I had seen the photos enough in my lesson books, snapped at their peak of majesty. It shouldn’t have been that hard to picture one more city. As hard as I tried, all I could see was the endless gray walls.

  The old woman cleared her throat.

  “Been here forty years now myself. Ten more and I might finally be allowed that parole hearing of mine. If I am still breathing by then.” She lightly chuckled. I could feel her eyes watching me. It took all my control to stay calm, breathing steady with my face slack. Turning and running off now wouldn’t look good.

  “Not much of a talker, huh?” She asked, her voice slightly cracking. “Must be a Jail Baby then. We convicts, we’re the criminals, the evil-doers. And boy do we know it. No need for us to keep all clammed up and goody-goody. We have already been screwed. Jail-babies are different. Born here and cursed with the unlucky sentence of being stuck with us until you turn eighteen. Unluckiest of all draws if you ask me. Though maybe…” The woman suddenly started to cough. I let my eyes glance over to watch her, her frail shoulders shaking as a thin hand reached up to pound on her nearly flat chest.

  My hand twitched at my side. Something made me want to reach out and comfort this old woman. I could feel my fingers lifting, and forced them back down against my leg.

  A moment of quiet passed. The old woman licked her lips, her eyes darting to the poster before glancing back to me. They were dull, swimming with a milky white that made me wonder exactly how much of me she actually saw.

  “If this prison gets any bigger, there won’t be anyone left out there for you to be released to, you know.”

  I couldn’t break my gaze from hers. The milky clouds in her eyes drew me in, my eyes searching hers for any sign of actual sight.

  “So?” she asked, her voice low and rough.

  I blinked. “So?”

  “Convict. Or Jail Baby?”

  I looked away, my throat strangely tightening for a second.

  “I was born here,” I said curtly.

  The woman went quiet, her eyes studying me. I felt my stomach tighten. Her eyes had turned sad, her lips twisting down at the corners slightly as she took me in. The moment passed. Shaking her head, the woman glanced at the wall once more.

  “Pity. What a pity,” she muttered, then limped away. Her left foot dragged slightly along the ground, her hands still hanging limply at her sides.

  I stood frozen for a moment, watching the old woman walk into the Commons crowd. My eyes stared at the spot her bent back had disappeared into, my stomach still dancing with the angry butterflies that were desperately trying to break free.

  Tearing my eyes away, I turned and ducked into the nearby door. The hallway beyond was long and dim. And empty. I hurried into the corridor, letting the noisy chatter of the Commons disappear behind me. My feet wobbled and my head spun as I tried to regain my bearings on the world around me.

  There was no real reason for this uneasy feeling that had taken me over. She had just been a lonely old woman, looking for conversation. I kept repeating that to myself, willing the words to stop the jittery feel that radiated through my entire body.

  The hallway opened up into a small enclave, a single metal door waiting on the opposite end of where I stood. A guard stood near the door, his arms crossed lazily over his chest and his face clearly bored. As he saw me approach, he grumbled something under his breath then pushed away from the wall to block my path.

  Out of reflex, I lifted my left hand. The small bracelet I had worn my entire life dangled from my wrist, my name inscribed onto its dull metal surface. It was locked on, given just enough room to spin. Sometimes the metal dug into the skin around my bones, scraping it raw. I rarely noticed anymore.

  The guard yawned, then pulled a small boxy device from his utility belt. Holding it up to my wrist, he pressed a button and waited. The enclave fell silent. I tried to swallow, but my throat was still dry. A beep finally cut through the air, a small green light flashing on the black box. The guard slid the device back into his belt and pushed open the door behind him. He didn’t even glance at me again as he went back to his bored leaning, his eyes slightly drooping shut.

  I stepped through and quickly turned to the left, making my way down the narrow, fenced in walkway. People moved about inside their cells, the doors still open for the daytime hours. The occasional shuffle of feet mixed with the low murmur of voices echoed down the stretch of floor B.

  Most inmates preferred the Commons during day hours. Some had assigned work, others chose the fenced-in exercise yard. The rest packed inside the Commons, the only social place inside Spokane. Things were different on my floor. Inmates here, on floor B, tended to stay in their cells. Solitude had become the best companion for the convicted.

  I had heard the stories, ever since I had started school and my teachers drilled the images into my head, of what these criminals were capable of. We were told of detailed, horrible crimes, the images from the stories frightening us awake at night. A few times I had tried to ask why those born inside, the Jail Babies, were kept in here if the people surrounding us were so dangerous. The teachers always would look at me the same way. Their face would go cold, lacking any sympathy, as if angry at me for even thinking the question. Then they would repeat the same reason: That it was our parents’ faults. Their explanation always ended at that. Finally, I had stopped asking.

  In their unspoken words, they told me this was something I just had to accept. And so, I had.

  The old woman’s parting words echoed in my mind. Pity. What a pity. I shook my head, chasing the words away, and pushed myself forward.

  As I made my way to my cell, I barely had to look up. I had made this walk my entire life. It was as trained into me as breathing or blinking. The voices of other inmates filled the air around me. I could feel it pulse. Beds rustled, pacing footsteps shuffled back and forth in cells as I passed. Someone called to me. The world seemed to swim around me, the sounds of life growing stronger in my ears until it dulled into an angry roar. I paused only a moment before moving on. I never looked up.

  My feet finally stopped. I could see the open doorway out of the corner of my eye, the light of the walkway disappearing into the dimly lit cell within. I let my eyes trail up, locking them onto the number “942” that was painted above the cell door. Without another pause, I ducked inside.

  Even though the cell door sat open during the day, allowing any one passing to easily look in, I always felt safe inside. I had been raised in this cell since the day my mother bore me into this condemned life. I knew every inch of it.

  The same dull gray walls rose on all four sides, the only change in them being the open cell door on one end and the window on the other. During the day, a haze of sunlight would illuminate the thick plastic window, giving us our only sign it was no longer night. Daytime it glowed, nighttime it was dead
black. If we wanted to actually see outside, we had to dare the exercise yard. Something that I rarely did. The yard was run by gangs and sweaty men, and always patrolled by heavily armored officers. It was better to avoid it.

  The cell was just large enough for the bunk bed that was screwed against one wall, and the toilet and sink under the window. A small bookshelf that held our dismal stack of folded clothing and worn books was the only other furniture in the room.

  This was home.

  My mother sat quietly on the bottom bunk. She had cuffed up her jeans to her knees, her pale legs tucked up underneath her. Her white shirt was dirty from the lack of washing, creased and stained in spots as it draped across her thin frame. My eyes trailed down, landing on her shoes that had been kicked carelessly to the ground.

  “Mom, you have to line them up,” I said with a sigh.

  My mother didn’t respond. I sighed once more, then bent down and picked up her shoes. I tucked her dirty socks inside, then carefully lined the shoes along the bottom of the bunk. A stale scent of sweat wafted up from the socks. Sniffing, I realized the entire room smelled like dirty socks. The rumpled stack of clothes on the shelf behind me only added to the moldy reek. I noted in my head that I would need to do laundry duty. Again.

  “Mom, if the guard comes in and sees your shoes like that, they will put you in solitary again.” I looked up at her, my hands still resting on her old shoes.

  She didn’t return my glance. Her eyes were dancing around, loftily taking in the room around her. “They’re just shoes, Mills.”

  “It’s a tripping hazard. And against the rules. If something happened and we tripped and got hurt, they would have to hospitalize us. And that will cost us. Remember?”

  “If, if, if. The rules are too strict here.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Mom. They are the rules. The Prison’s rules. Always have been. They will throw you in the Hole if you break the rules, just like last time. I don’t want them to…” I rubbed my hand down my face. Standing up, I let a slow breath escape through my lips. “Please, just line your shoes up. Okay?”

  My head still felt the remains of the fog. The fear of my mother disappearing again into the Hole threatened to bring the fog back in full force. She always came back worse. Blinking angrily, I turned away from her and walked toward the sink.

  My mother finally looked up and met my eyes. Her brown eyes glittered. “Okay Mills. Okay.” A smile spread on her face. “So, where have you been?”

  I cranked on the faucet. Luke warm water drizzled out. Letting it run over my hands, I closed my eyes a moment in exasperation. “My bi-weekly meeting with Dr. Eriks, Mom.” I splashed some water on my face, running my wet fingers back through my short hair.

  A sheet of metal hung over the sink. It barely reflected anything, showing just enough to let you see a dented, dim reflection of your face. I had heard that they once had real mirrors in the cells. That was, until too many inmates smashed in the shiny glass to use as weapons. Against others. Or against themselves. After too many ‘incidences,’ the mirrors had been taken out. They were permanently replaced with the barely reflective sheets of metal that hung firmly mounted and screwed to the gray wall. I barely knew what I looked like.

  Squinting my eyes, I tried to see the face that stared back at me. In the dim evening light of the cell I could barely make out my short, pale brown hair. It hung close to my chin. I ran my fingers through it again, hating the fact of how quickly they came to the cropped ends. Pursing my lips, I could feel the tight lines spray out across my face. I ran a finger along them, feeling their dips and rises crinkle along my lips. They were nothing compared to Dr. Eriks’.

  “You are beautiful, Millie.”

  Startled out of my mindless staring contest with myself, I turned back to my mother. She still sat on the bed, legs crossed, hands resting on knees. A smile spread on her face as she watched me. Unlike Dr. Eriks’ smile, my mother’s smile always warmed me. Every time she smiled it was as if she had some secret brimming on her lips, wanting to explode out and be shared with the world.

  “My pretty, pretty baby.”

  “Mom, I am turning eighteen in a week. I am far from a baby now.”

  “Oh Millie-Millie, you are my pretty baby.” My mother held out her arms, her fingers wiggling as she begged for me to come closer. I could hear her muttering ‘pretty baby’ over and over softly to herself.

  The warm feeling that had just a moment ago flowed over me at the sight of her smile went suddenly cold.

  She was lapsing again. My mother’s psychiatrist had declared her as ‘unstable.’ She would be completely lucid one moment, then would suddenly disappear into some distant world of her own the next. I had been told that if we lived out in the Nation, I would have been taken from her long ago, but because we were in Spokane I was ‘allowed’ to stay in her ‘care.’

  Most times the lapses seemed to consist of me being a baby again. I used to love these moments, relishing in the deep hugs she would wrap around me. I could never seem to get enough. Until one day I realized the truth. That when these moments happened, she didn’t seem to know it was me. She would call me by my name and talk to me, but her eyes were always glazed over by some hidden ghost. I didn’t exist. Since then, I never let her hug me when she was ‘gone.’

  I watched her a moment. Her smile was contagious on her face. It must have been beautiful once. Under the wrinkles of prison-ran life and the dirt smudges that never seemed to wash off, she held a beauty that refused to disappear.

  The strange glaze that now covered her eyes tried hard to chase the beauty away. It brought to light the stray hairs that stood on end, the greasy blonde twists that hung in clumps on her shoulders. I saw the shadows under her eyes. The deep gulps she took as she gasped in frenzied breaths and wiggled her fingers, begging to hold her baby.

  Without a word, I darted out of the cell.

  Choking back a sob, I leaned against the thin slice of wall that separated our door from our neighbor’s. I let the weight of my body pull me down until I slid onto the floor. My hands shook as I ran them through my hair, still damp with the water I had just splashed onto my face. After eighteen years of living in the same cell with the same woman, I should have been used to those moments. But I hated them. I hated how I had to be the adult in this crazy, locked up world.

  Lifting my chin I looked around. My father. He hadn’t been in the cell.

  Typically a silent shadow that followed my mother around wherever she went, I rarely even noticed him. He would mumble to me sometimes, asking how my day was and if I had any plans for tomorrow. I tried to answer and start a conversation, but it always failed and left us sitting in silence. What is there to talk about, when every day is the same?

  To me, my father was only one thing: a silent reflection of my mother. I wanted to feel a connection to him, but it was impossible to feel connected to someone who barely seemed connected to life.

  Looking down the walkway, I strained my eyes to see if I could spot his familiar stooped figure. A few other inmates leaned against the railing or sat on the ground outside their cell. I saw one man reading a tattered book, another man carelessly bouncing a ball over and over again on the ground. A girl walked past me, carrying a handful of papers. As she passed a pencil rolled off the stack and fell with a clatter to the ground.

  It rolled and bumped into my foot. I reached out and picked it up, my fingers wrapping around its thin wooden surface. Before I even thought about it, I lifted my eyes to the girl and held the pencil out.

  “Th-Thanks,” she stuttered.

  Squinting my eyes, I looked harder at her. She looked like she was just a year or two younger than me. I knew this girl. Fighting against the persistent fog in my mind, I tried to place her face and stutter. It slowly came to me. She had sat next to me in my classes, before I had opted out into independent study. She had always been mumbling to herself, her stutter causing her to slightly twitch when it got too intense. Her name was…
I couldn’t remember it.

  “942B?” she asked.

  “Uh, yeah. How are you?” The words felt thick in my mouth, obviously forced.

  “G-Good.” She forced a smile, one side of her mouth drooping slightly under a healing bruise. “H-How about you?”

  I nodded, pulling my eyes away from the bruise. “Doing alright.”

  “Sh-shouldn’t you have b-been let out b-b-by now?” the fellow Jail Baby asked.

  “Next week. I turn eighteen next week.”

  “Oh. Well. G-Good luck th-then. I hope t-t-to never see you again.”

  I let a tiny smile spread on my face as I watched her shuffle away down the walk, her shoulder slightly twitching as she mumbled to herself. Her parting words weren’t meant to be harsh. Everyone in Spokane hoped to never see each other again. It wasn’t a hostile wish. It was the wish that you might never again be locked up inside these walls.

  I banged my head softly against the wall, trying hard to remember the girl’s name, but it never came to me. I could only remember the bruise on her drooping lip and the twitch of her thin shoulder.

  My back started to ache. I must have been sitting for at least an hour. Losing track of time was too easy in a place where every day, every minute, everything was the same. Standing up, I rubbed my back, stretching my other arm up over my head.

  The groan that escaped my lips came to a quick halt as I heard something echo down the walk. Footsteps. Heavy footsteps. They weren’t the usual padding of worn out sneakers. These echoes were sharp, precise. Timed.

  They were the echo of boots.

  3

  Pushing my back against the wall, I looked up to see two guards making their way slowly down the walk. They glanced into each cell as they passed, occasionally pausing a moment longer to stare inside before moving on.

  Inspections.

  I silently thanked myself that I had lined up my mother’s shoes. Glancing inside, I saw she had fallen asleep on the bed, one hand hanging over the edge, her fingers occasionally twitching as she dreamed. I let myself relax a bit, my back leaning once more against the cool wall.