Freedom of Love (Letters From Home Series Book 2)

by Maryann Jordan

  Nodding, I tried to hold back the hope, but it threatened to shine through nonetheless. Feeling Clarice’s fingers squeeze mine, I offered a slight smile. “Thank you. I would…well…thank you,” I stammered.

  Lying in bed that night as my cellmates slept, I thought of the meeting with Rachel’s foster mom, sifting through everything she had said. I’ll be able to see Rachel when I get out. Even if it’s with a counselor present, that’d be fine. More than fine! Maybe, just maybe, things are looking up. Rolling over, I smiled. I’ll write Brody tomorrow.

  Chapter 8

  (August – Brody)

  The scorching sun bore down on my back as I left the command center at the end of my shift. One rescue and two DOAs. Not the stats I wanted to have. Sighing heavily, I ducked into the MWR. A week had passed, but there had been no other emails from Molly. While that wasn’t unusual, I craved her words. Clicking on her last email, I read it over several times. Checking my other emails, I came across one from Corrlinks. Assuming it was spam, I almost deleted before reading it, but clicked it open instead.

  It informed me that the Corrlinks internet provider now had a way for me to add money to a Corrlinks account to continue correspondence with anyone who had a Corrlinks email account. Recognizing that as the email provider Molly used, I remembered her saying that she did not always have internet access. Maybe that’s why she hasn’t responded. Smiling, I thought what a wonderful surprise I would be to send a little gift and clicked on the email to check about adding some money to her internet account.

  The link took me to the website for Corrlinks, an internet service for persons who were incarcerated in federal prisons.

  Incarcerated in federal prison.

  Incarcerated. In. Federal. Prisons.

  The words blurred in front of me as my heart pounded erratically. Molly? Incarcerated? No fuckin’ way. My fingers automatically typed Molly Thurston into Google, and hit News.

  An article popped up from the Charlottesville Gazette, about her arrest and subsequent conviction. Domestic fight. Stepfather killed. Convicted of involuntary manslaughter.

  My heart pounded an erratic beat as I stared at the words on the screen, losing track of how much time I sat, numb to my core. She killed someone? My breath left my lungs in a whoosh as I leaned heavily back in my chair. What a fuckin’ moron I’ve been! I’ve been communicating…hell, sharing my life…with a killer? News articles on prisoners having scammed money from pen-pals filled my mind. I fell for an inmate in a prison who’s probably out to rook me of all my money. Oh, hell, no!

  Pulling up her last email, all my frustration and anger poured out in my words.

  Molly,

  I have just discovered that you do not work in a library as you stated, but instead are actually an inmate in a prison. To say I’m stunned at your duplicity would be an understatement. I assume I’m only one of many men you have contacted. If your intention was to eventually scam me out of my money or my time, then you can consider this avenue closed. There is no more reason to have any contact with me. I shall delete your messages and block you.

  SGT Molina

  Hitting send, I shoved my chair back, barely catching it as it tipped over, and stood quickly. I headed immediately to my tent and bent over my footlocker. Pulling out the books I had collected, I stacked them on my bed. I reached into the lid where I had taped her picture and ripped it off. I then took out the handwritten notes I had from her. Grabbing everything, I made my way back to the MWR.

  Setting the books on the counter, I called out to the worker, “I’m done. Leaving these here.”

  “Hey, I’ll let you know when we get in more!” he called from the back.

  “Don’t bother!” I shouted in return. Seeing his head pop out from behind the wooden shelves looking at me in confusion, I said, “Don’t think I’ll be reading anytime soon.” With that, I walked out and stood over the nearest trash can. Ripping her letters and picture into several pieces, I tossed them into the garbage where they belonged.

  Sucking in a deep breath, I stalked around the corner to the gym to pound out my anger.

  “You want to talk about what’s got you so pissed?”

  I looked up at Todd, standing in the doorway of the Dustoff command center. It was a slow day for once and I lay on the old sofa, having already double-checked the bird for supplies.

  “Not particularly,” I said, my gaze shifting away from his hard stare.

  “I figure it’s about the pretty librarian whose picture is no longer in your footlocker.”

  “How the hell do you know what’s in my shit?”

  “Cause I’ve got eyes, asshole,” he laughed. “I used to see her picture when you’d open it up and now it’s not there. Figured she sent you a Dear John Letter.”

  “Be hard for her to do that since we were never together,” I bit back.

  “You might have not been physically together,” he countered, “but you were mighty friendly.”

  “Yeah, well, no more. I realized she wasn’t who she said she was and I don’t have time for a liar in my life. So I sent her a good riddance email. I’m better off now.”

  Todd said nothing and I began to burn under his intense stare. “Well, for someone who claims to be better off, you’re awfully pissed.” Shrugging, he stood straight and reached into his pocket. “It’s none of my business, but I picked this up at the PO. I waited until you were ready to go off duty.” He tossed an envelope into my lap. Turning, he stopped and looked back. “I’ve seen men come here married and leave divorced. Seen some go home engaged and then come back alone.” Shaking his head, he added, “This place fucks us all up eventually. If you need to talk, man, I’m here.” With that, I stared at his back as he walked out of the room, his heavy boots tapping out a pattern on the wooden floors.

  Finally dropping my gaze to my lap, I picked up the envelope, three things hitting me all at once. It was from Molly. It had her prison return address. It was postmarked before I sent my blistering email. What the hell could she have to say to me? And why do I care?

  My fingers shook as I opened the letter, uncertain why I felt kicked in the stomach. Grateful for the empty room, I pulled out the long missive.

  Dear Brody,

  This letter is long overdue but so necessary. As you can see from the return address, I am writing from a prison. Yes, I am an inmate, but please, for our friendship’s sake, allow me the chance to explain why I have not spoken of this before now. In fact, I’m going to tell you something that I have kept secret because I know I can trust you.

  Until two years ago, my life was so normal. I worked, went to school part time, had friends, and my future appeared bright. Then my mom died of cancer. It was hard for my thirteen-year-old sister, but I helped my stepdad out as much as I could. He drank too much, but I thought everything was fine until a year ago.

  I went over to visit and found him hurting my sister. I promised her that I would never tell what was happening, but it was horrible. I tried to push him away, but he swung at me. I grabbed a lamp from the end table and hit him in the back to keep him from hurting her more. He stumbled, fell, and hit his head. He died before the ambulance even got there.

  Because I had caused his fall, I was charged with involuntary manslaughter. I have now found out that if I had consulted an attorney, and had proper representation, the charges would probably have been dropped. But I was naïve and had no one to turn to. So I was given the lightest sentence of ten months in a minimum security facility.

  I have a lot of freedom here…well, I suppose that word is not right. I have no freedom and won’t for three more months, but I am allowed to have some internet access and I was authorized to work in the library.

  I love that part of each day. Surrounded by books…I can get lost in their stories, whether it’s mysteries, romance, thrillers, or even biographies. I used to have an e-reader, but can’t have it with me in here. But I have rediscovered the wonderful feeling of holding a book, the words pouring
out in front of me as I turn the pages. I want to thank you because, with your friendship, I have found even more pleasure in the written word.

  I see a social worker, who encouraged my Books For Soldiers project and even to correspond with you. She knows a lot of my story and wants me to realize that while I made a fateful decision a year ago, I cannot let my incarceration define who I am. And you are helping me with that as well. I’m still Molly…student, reader, friend. I still have a lot to offer the world.

  My sister’s foster mom came to see me and it appears that my sister is seeing a counselor and may be getting to the place where she can also talk about what our stepfather had been doing to her. I pray for that, because honestly, she needs healing more than I do.

  I have loved our correspondence…it has truly meant the world to me. And I pray that our friendship doesn’t end from my confession to you. I know that the war has been so difficult and am honored you share your life with me.

  I’ll be out in about 2 ½ months and would love to meet you when we are both free.

  Your sincere friend,

  Molly

  Swallowing hard, I let the pages of the letter fall back into my lap. Fuck…oh, fuck! My face burned with shame as my stomach burned with churning. I never gave her a chance. Not a fuckin’ chance. My harsh words sent in anger filled me with self-loathing. Molly gave up her freedom for a promise made to her sister and I laid waste to her sacrifice.

  Her carefully handwritten words on the page blurred as I felt the unfamiliar sting of tears hit my eyes. Scrubbing my shaky hand over my face, I flopped back on the old sofa, hearing the sounds of the next shift coming in.

  Folding the letter carefully, I placed it back into the envelope and slid it into my pocket. Standing, I nodded curtly toward the others as I headed out of the building, walking into the dark night.

  My boots did not take me back to my tent. I wandered through the base for hours, my mind wandering as much as my feet. Staring up into the night sky which had always brought a sense of peace, now the stars appeared to be mocking me.

  I have to make this right but had no idea how to begin doing that. Not from halfway around the world. I could only pray she would forgive me.

  Chapter 9

  (September – Molly)

  “Hot pot!”

  Ellen called out the warning and I ducked as she moved through the kitchen carrying a heated pan of fried chicken.

  “Why the hell you asked to be reassigned to the hot, madhouse kitchen instead of staying in the quiet library for your last couple of months, I’ll never understand,” Jackie said, gently pushing by me as she carried the large metal pan of hot mashed potatoes.

  “Just wanted a break,” I mumbled, as I rushed to grab serving spoons as the other inmates were already lining up at the counter. The smells of the kitchen, especially the vats of grease, had me choke back a gag.

  The girls in the kitchen could be a little rough on newcomers, but with Ellen and Jackie’s protection, I had integrated with few problems. I had suggested Cynthia take my place in the library and, with Susan’s agreement and recommendation, she was reassigned. Cynthia had thanked me profusely.

  “Hmph,” Ellen groused, glaring at me. “Well, listening to you try to hide your tears at night, I’d say it was more than just needing a break.”

  My eyes darted to her and her grumpy frown morphed to a sad smile. “Honey, it’s okay. Whatever stole your joy can’t be any worse than whatever stole your freedom.”

  Dishing out the lunch as the inmates shuffled along the food line, I thought, Oh, yes it is. I’ll soon have my freedom back, but my heart will still be broken.

  “You only have one more month here, and we need to start your transition program,” Susan said, her sharp eyes on me, causing me to keep looking down at my hands. It was hard to hold her gaze when I saw questions in it. Questions I didn’t know how to answer.

  “What do I need to do?” I asked, working to keep my voice steady, the thought of leaving the prison sending both excitement and fear coursing through me.

  “You will need to report to a parole officer for six months afterward. Have you considered employment or will you continue being a full-time student?”

  “I think I can get my job back at the restaurant I was working in. I had a little money saved up, so I should be able to find a room to rent or maybe an efficiency. And I’ll keep working on my degree.”

  Silence descended over us and I wondered what else she wanted to talk about. She had a small window in her office and my gaze wandered to the stream of sunshine coming through. It wasn’t much, but it illuminated her office in a warmth that was lacking in all of the other, closed-off rooms.

  “Molly?”

  I jumped at hearing my name, not knowing how much time I had allowed my thoughts to wander. “I’m sorry,” I apologized.

  Chuckling, she shook her head. “You don’t need to be sorry…but I do want to talk about what happened last month.”

  I started to make a denial, but knew it was pointless. What does it matter now? Clearing my throat, I said, “I decided to come clean and tell Bro—um, Sergeant Molina about my situation. But before he got my letter where I explained my situation, he discovered that I was here.”

  “And…” she prodded, her brow wrinkled in concern.

  “And he wasn’t too happy. Assumed I was trying to scam him. Accused me of duplicity. Anyway, he no longer wanted to have any contact with me. So…um…I guess that’s about it.” Adopting what I hoped was a serene expression, I held her gaze. I attempted a smile but abandoned it, knowing it resembled more of a grimace.

  “Oh, Molly, that’s hardly all,” she said gently.

  I opened and closed my mouth for a moment, uncertain what she meant or how to respond. Finally, choosing to say nothing, I clamped my lips tightly together.

  “You left the library assignment asking to be sent to kitchen duty. And, according to Ms. Purdue, you haven’t checked out a book in over five weeks. You also stopped your Corrlinks account so you haven’t had a chance to see if he reconsidered his position after he got your letter.”

  “He was pretty definite about his position,” I said, unfiltered irritation sparking my words. “Hanging around the library, checking each day to see if he wrote back would be even more…heartbreaking.”

  Not giving up, Susan continued, “I have also heard from our post office clerk here that you have received three letters that you have rejected and have sent back. I think that would indicate he wants to make amends.”

  Dropping my head, I should have known she would investigate my rapid change in behavior, but I had no idea she knew my secrets. Well, some of them. Battling the tears threatening to fall, I looked back up to her face, determination filling my mind.

  “Let’s be honest, Susan. You told me months ago that I made a decision and had to live with the repercussions. You’re right. I did and I do.” Seeing that she wanted more from me, I continued, “He’s a hero who saves lives every day. I’m a nobody. An inmate. He’s got a future ahead of him that doesn’t include someone with the albatross of a criminal conviction around their neck. We were never going to be more than pen-pals. That’s it. No friendship. No relationship. Nothing.”

  Panting, chest heaving, blinking furiously to keep the threatening tears at bay, I watched the sliver of sunshine beaming down on a corner of her desk. Shaking my head with the frustration of it all, I blurted, “All I tried to do was save my sister. And I’d do it all over again if I could. I never meant for Sam to fall the way he did and die when he hit his head.” Choking on a sob, I barely whispered, “I just had to get him off her.”

  Dropping my chin to my chest, I clasped my hand over my mouth, trying to hold it all in. And failed.

  Susan hurried over, her arms wrapping around my shaking shoulders, pulling me into her comfort. With shushes cooing in my ear, I cried the pent-up tears I had held in for a year. Tears for the loss of my sister and her innocence. For the loss of our mother. Fo
r the loss of my heart. For the loss of my freedom.

  Following the guard down the hall, I was not surprised to be led toward a conference room. With my impending release I had had multiple meetings, so one more was not surprising.

  Stepping inside, I was shocked to see Susan sitting with Clarice and another woman I did not recognize. Hesitating at the door, Susan motioned me in as she stood and thanked the guard before indicating I should take a seat.

  Heart pounding, my weak knees dropped into the vacant, metal chair as I gasped, “Rachel? Is Rachel all right?”

  The three women all looked stunned at my assumption and immediately clamored to assure me that my sister was fine. Accepting their reassurances, I studied their faces to see any hint at the purpose of the meeting, but their expressions gave nothing away.

  “Molly, you know Clarice, Rachel’s foster mother, and this is Thelma Cordone, an attorney friend of Clarice’s.”

  “Okay…uh…hello,” I finally stammered, not knowing why an attorney would be here. She had a severe appearance about her with short grey hair and dark glasses. Minimal makeup was worn, but a slash of red lipstick gave her face an even more stark look. She was not smiling but neither was she glaring at me. In fact, her gaze appeared to be appraising me and I wondered what she could see. Licking my dry lips, I swallowed deeply waiting to see what she wanted.

  Clarice smiled, drawing my gaze over to her, and said, “Molly, I told you before that Rachel was attending counseling and she is doing very well. She has now told her counselor…and me, what had been happening with her stepfather.”

  My wide eyes shot to Clarice first and then jumped to Susan and Ms. Cordone. “She told?” Letting my breath out in a whoosh, I realized how important it was for Rachel to be able to talk about her situation. Swallowing deeply, I asked, “And she’s really doing okay with it all?”