by Mel Jacob
THIRTY-NINE
‘This is the third time they’ve lost the paperwork,’ Patrick said, distraught.
‘So you’re not coming home?’ I asked.
It was the end of November and Patrick was due to come home for a full weekend visit. Not only was it was disappointing for him but so much work had gone into preparing for it. I’d spent the day shopping and cooking and stocking the cupboards because once he came home I wasn’t permitted to leave the house. I cleaned the house and the pool, and had a new phone line installed so the monitoring box could be plugged directly into it.
‘The COs haven’t even submitted it. So many men have missed out on leave because they don’t care.’
‘Hopefully they can have it approved for next weekend,’ I said with forced optimism.
‘That’s what the COs said but they should try being locked up in here for the weekend . . . worried you’re going to get stabbed in your sleep.’
It was the first time he’d alluded to any real danger and it sickened me. His letters had mentioned dark and funny things but they were always part of much bigger gallows-humour stories. He shared them with me because I continually asked him to. He’d been so insistent he was okay, that I didn’t think he was in any serious danger.
‘Dad’s not coming home,’ I said to the kids in a conversation that was strangely reminiscent of the one when I’d told them he’d gone to prison. It was another hot afternoon and they were sitting on bar stools.
‘But why?’ Nick asked, defeated. He hadn’t said much about it, so I hadn’t realised how much he was counting on the weekend release. ‘Dad told me that he was following all the rules and he hasn’t done anything wrong.’
He ran outside and started kicking the base of the trampoline so forcibly that the sole of his boot came clean off. Of course, Lexie was far more vocal in her protests, saying that she hated the guards and the jail, and she began, very dramatically, tearing up the drawings she’d done for Patrick.
‘You can give them to him next weekend,’ I said, trying to stop her but I could have more easily stopped an avalanche.
I couldn’t bear the thought of eating the food we had been going to share. Preparations were underway for the Hands, Heart and Feet end-of-year performance, so I boxed up the food and took it to John and Emily.
‘It’s okay to be sad and angry, you know,’ John said, walking us back to our car at the end of our visit.
Nick looked up to me to confirm that was the case. I nodded.
‘Sometimes, when things are hard, know what I like to do?’ John said.
Nick shook his head.
‘Thwacking.’
‘What the heck is that?’ Lexie asked, and John picked up a large stick and began hitting a nearby tree, the action making a distinct thwacking noise. For a few minutes, the kids channelled their pent-up feelings into the whacking and afterwards they were noticeably calmer.
‘Can we take the sticks home?’ Nick asked.
‘I don’t see why not,’ John said.
And the kids spent the next two days wielding sticks and thwacking. At times, I joined them, and it helped to release the tension. But no matter how many times I hit a tree, I could not stop thinking about Patrick. His words ‘stabbed in your sleep’ kept haunting me. I had to do everything in my power to help him.
On Monday, at Patrick’s request, I wrote to Corrective Services.
To the Commissioner,
I feel compelled to write as my husband Patrick Jacob did not receive approval for his first weekend release on the weekend starting Friday 28th November. His paperwork was initially submitted eight weeks ago. It has now been submitted 3 times to date and he was told that it had been misplaced and couldn’t be approved. My husband also told me that some of the guards said, ‘How’s being polite working out for you Jacobs? See, it doesn’t work like that around here.’ Another guard also said, ‘Good luck with getting out at Christmas.’ Family members also wrote to Corrective Services regarding the new award and the collective responses explained that Patrick would be eligible for weekend leave for the last two months of his sentence.
My husband has owned his charges and to my knowledge has served his time without incident or trouble. His sentence has had an impact on our family and it is increasingly difficult to manage the expectations of our children after he did not receive the weekend leave. He was also told by one of the officers that as a consolation he would be granted work release for Sunday 30th November. This was not granted and subsequently I was not able to visit him in jail either as we were expecting him to be at work and therefore did not book a visit in time.
Prior to my husband’s sentence I worked as a freelance writer and journalist. I have received numerous offers to write about my experience in major publications. I have declined all offers out of concern for my husband and respect for the Corrective Services. It is increasingly difficult to maintain any respect when it seems that the employees of the Corrective Services don’t seem to respect the dignity of the inmates or their eligibility for leave and visitations.
I am writing this for the sake of my children only. I hope that I can continue to instil in them a respect for authority and procedure. Our children, aged 9 and 6, are scared by the atmosphere at Parklea visit centre. The intimidating appearance of some of the inmates, the nature of the language and the sometimes aggressive nature of the inmates’ children has forced us to make the very difficult decision not to take the children to Parklea facility anymore. The website for Corrective Services under family support states: ‘Corrective Services NSW recognises that visits to inmates in correctional centres are important to strengthen and maintain family relationships.’ I am doing everything within my power to maintain our very strained family relationships and for this reason I implore that the Corrective Services does everything in their power to approve Patrick Jacob’s weekend leave for the forthcoming weekend (6th and 7th December) and the following weekends until his release date. This will strengthen our family in this very difficult time as we approach Christmas.
Yours truly,
Melissa Jacob
Several days later, James called. ‘It’s been approved, I just got the call.’
FORTY
Parklea Correctional Centre
1 December 2014
Beauty,
Arrived back from work release, CO’s acting weird.
CO: Would you say I’ve done everything to help you, Jacobs? I’ve always submitted your forms, wouldn’t you say? Remembered your request for your new shoes . . . the shoes you’re wearing (referring to my Winners).
New cellie explained that some inmates hassled COs on my behalf. Felt bad for me not getting leave because I’m a ‘normal’.
Inmate: Is Matthews one or two T’s?
CO (Matthews): What are you rabbiting on about, Crosley?
Inmate: Just fact checking for Jacobs. Want to make sure they spell your name right. You know his wife’s a journalist?
CO: Yeah and I’m the King of England.
Inmate: You’re f$*#ed now! Your name’s going to be in the papers. Front page.
The COs told Crosley he was full of it but then googled your name and read some stories. Then, according to Crosley, they ran around like headless chooks, getting paperwork signed and making calls. Crosley said they’re really packing it.
With any luck, probably thanks to your stories, I’ll be out this weekend.
Love,
Paddy
I’d written for many years but only worked as a proper freelance writer for a few years before Patrick went to prison. After he’d gone away, I’d tried to keep working as a writer, pitching ideas, having stories published, but coordinating interviews, and trying to keep the kids quiet when I was on the phone after my regular work had finished, but it was too much. The final straw came when I’d organised to interview Dr Dan Siegel, a Harvard-educated, New York Times-bestselling author, and expert in the field of interpersonal neurobiology. I had been commissio
ned to write an article about helicopter parenting, and was particularly interested in Dr Siegel’s research on the way stimulating emotions causes growth in the integrative fibres of the brain. I’d talked to Nick and Lexie about how the more they learn, intellectually and emotionally, the bigger the bushes in their brain will become.
‘What I don’t understand,’ Lexie said, rubbing her chin, ‘is if all these people are getting giant bushes in the front of their brain, why don’t you see people with enormous foreheads?’
I had chased and chased to get the interview, and was only allowed five minutes, Saturday morning, our time. The kids knew how important the interview was, and I told them not to come in unless the house was on fire. During this time Lexie interrupted me twice, first to ask if she could have a biscuit, and second to ask if she could have a birthday sleepover. To which I replied, ‘Your birthday is in March, four months away!’
I felt then like I was on a stretching rack—being pulled beyond what I could bear. So I decided to stop chasing other people’s stories. My own story had become all-consuming and I had no time to document anybody else’s.
FORTY-ONE
‘It’s over, it’s over,’ said Patrick, rocking backwards and forwards and repeatedly striking himself in the head. It was Friday evening and we’d just arrived home for the weekend visit to discover that the newly installed phone line was dead.
‘What’s wrong with Dad?’ Nick asked, distressed.
‘You need to calm down, you’re scaring the kids,’ I said.
He didn’t stop. He moved and stood near the glass sliding doors and continued hitting himself. Nick looked back and forth from Patrick to me.
‘He’s worried he might have to go back to Parklea because the phone line isn’t working,’ I said, trying to speak as slowly and calmly as possible. ‘I need you and Lexie to go and watch TV, so we can get this sorted out.’ I started dialling the number for the monitoring service.
‘Who wants to play Old Maid?’ Lexie asked earnestly whe she came into the room.
The monitoring company gave us forty-five minutes to resolve the issue. The phones had been an ongoing saga. The alarm had been disconnected but to ensure there weren’t anymore problems I had a second line installed, during which the original line was disconnected. It took our service provider weeks to repair it and now the second line was not connected. Corrective Services weren’t permitted to connect to the original line because it wasn’t on the weekend-leave paperwork. I called a local electrician who’d done some work for us in the past, explained the situation, and begged him to come over. He did and, a few minutes before the deadline, reconnected the line. But, as the night wore on, I began to wish Patrick had been sent back to Parklea.
‘Why aren’t you using the dishwasher?’ Patrick asked as I washed the dinner plates.
‘It’s not working.’
‘I pulled out the filter last time,’ he said, slamming open the dishwasher drawer.
‘Yes, but it’s still—’
‘There’s a part missing . . . where is it?’ he barked.
In all the time I’d known Patrick before he went to prison, I’d always been the fiery one. I could count on one hand the amount of times he’d lost his temper. Now he was angry all the time.
‘Where is it?’ he demanded. ‘Where is it? Where is it?’
Patrick’s litany of complaints continued the following day. Chief among them was the dishwasher but he also had strong feelings about the kids having too many days off school, the need for neater drawers, and wanted to know why I didn’t have an inventory of all food items so that we never ran out. For most of the day, I bit my tongue, putting it all down to PTSD. In the late afternoon, things escalated and I couldn’t hold back anymore.
As I put the lunch things into the fridge, I realised I hadn’t given Lexie her antibiotics for her middle ear infection. I put the dosage into the syringe and called her. Patrick had come inside and was sitting at the dining table.
‘You claim to be so busy and you forgot her antibiotics. What’s more important than the children’s health?’ he asked.
I was gutted. The Patrick I knew wasn’t malicious.
‘I paid a babysitter to be with Nick while I was at the hospital with Lexie until two in the morning, so don’t say I don’t care about the children’s health!’ I filled the kettle with water to make tea. ‘Why didn’t you take her to the hospital? Oh, that’s right,’ I said, ‘because you weren’t here.’ It was a low blow but it was how I felt. ‘And if you’re so concerned about the bloody antibiotics, you could have given them to her. For two years, everything has been on my shoulders.’
‘Don’t tell me about two years. Try being in prison for two years.’
‘I’ve done everything . . . everything while you’ve been in there,’ I said, my voice breaking. I was crying out for a shred of validation or insight.
‘You haven’t done the dishwasher!’ was all he said.
‘It’s on the list,’ I replied, ‘my very long list.’
‘Every chance you get you have a little dig, don’t you? Your “very long list!”’ he mimicked. I was standing in the kitchen, leaning against the bench. It was as though all the events of the past four years were weighing on me, and I just felt tired. When would this ever end?
‘You’re always complaining. Every visit, you’d always find something to complain about,’ he continued, rising to his feet.
‘I think, under the circumstances, I have every right to complain now and then.’
‘Now and then,’ he scoffed. The kettle was a stovetop variety and took a long time to boil. I was surprised Patrick hadn’t complained about that as well because he’d always hated that kettle. I usually didn’t mind the time it took, as I loved the shape, the colour and the sound of it. But now I couldn’t wait any longer. I poured myself a glass of red wine instead. It wasn’t even five o’clock.
‘What do I need to do for you? Corrective Services is happy, parole is happy, the only one who’s not happy is you,’ he said. And he stopped, as if to harness all the anger and hatred and bitterness that was inside him: ‘Haven’t I suffered enough?’
‘We’ve all suffered,’ I spat.
‘Suffered?’ he scoffed. ‘You haven’t been in prison.’
‘Yes, because I didn’t do anything wrong! You did. You broke the law. You tore our family apart. You!’
I was enraged. The one person who should have been able to empathise with my situation couldn’t even give me a speck of understanding. Strangers had more empathy than he did. I wanted to go. Get out of the house. Go for a walk or a run, let off steam. But, as his sponsor for weekend release, I wasn’t even allowed to leave the perimeter of our yard.
I stormed outside and sat on the edge of the pool. The evening was hot and I dangled my legs in the water. I didn’t know if I loved him or hated him. Thoughts darted at me from all directions. I gulped the wine, kicking the water with my feet so it shot up into the air.
A few people had said to me that they wouldn’t stand by their partner if they went to prison, but I’d stood by him. I had bent over backwards supporting him through the court case and prison, doing errands for him, and for other people he’d met because he’d asked me to. If anyone had a more bizarre to-do list than I did, I would like to see it.
I had sacrificed so much for him, for our family. My life had been put on hold. My writing career, my freedom. Like this is what I wanted for my life? I used to be fit, I used to be healthy. Keith Richards is a picture of health compared with what I see staring back at me in the mirror these days, I thought.
Patrick had broken the law and there had to be consequences. I accepted that but what does it say about the prison system if he was now more messed up and aggressive than before he went in?
‘Why? Why? Why?’ I cried out. I hastily poured myself another glass of wine from the bottle I’d had the foresight to bring with me. Some of it spilled into the pool. It looked like blood. I’m not sure if it w
as the red-hued water or the anger that pulsed through me, but I thought that I could understand how people came to kill their spouses. And if it weren’t for the fact that Nick and Lexie’s remaining parent would be in prison, I might have.
I wished I’d never met him. But then again . . . I wouldn’t have Nick and Lexie. Maybe I could have done it Lexie-style. Met him, had the kids and then got rid of him.
But the thought of him dying or leaving didn’t bring me the comfort I craved. It just intensified the pain I was already feeling. And what saddened me more than anything else was that it had come to this. After all this time, and energy and effort, and after all these years, our marriage was crumbling right before our eyes.
I needed to talk to someone. I called our long-time friend Dave. He had known Patrick longer than I had, and had regularly been to court and visited him in prison, and often called me to see how I was going.
‘He loves you passionately,’ Dave insisted, after I told him about Paddy’s behaviour towards me. He had such a way with words, and I reflected that one day he would make an excellent lawyer, or a poet. I often thought that he looked and sounded like a poet, with his flowing golden locks and dapper clothing.
‘He has a strange way of showing it,’ I said.
‘He’s a doer, a provider. That’s how he shows love, you know that, Mel.’
‘Yes, I s’pose,’ I said, sniffling into the phone.
‘Not being able to do that for you for so long, and even now not being able to handle money or use the phone . . . He’s had no control over anything for so long and being so close to the end . . . it’s tearing him apart. Providing for you has to count for something, I’m absolutely useless at that, ask Ange.’ As a part-time law student, Dave also had a poet’s income.